


In Another Life

by BloodiedRose



Category: Forever (TV 2014)
Genre: Abe isn't Henry's son, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Amputation, Attempted Murder, Attempted Suicide, Bad Parenting, Case Fic, Child Death, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Mental Health Issues, Mortal Henry Morgan, Shifting Points of View, Terminal Illness, The world's worst parenting, There are two Abes, Torture, Whump, accidental murder, domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:00:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25524781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodiedRose/pseuds/BloodiedRose
Summary: Jo has always known that Henry's past was... weird. But now that it is finally catching up to him, she is about to see just how dangerous it really was, and the dangers it poses again.(AU where Henry Morgan is, and always has been, mortal.)
Relationships: Abigail Morgan/Henry Morgan, One-sided Jo Martinez/Henry Morgan, One-sided Lucas Wahl/Henry Morgan
Comments: 67
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I started writing this fic in 2015. It was sparked by looking at gifsets where Henry hints at his life and joking that if Henry wasn't immortal, his life would have been an absolute roller coaster. And an idea was born. I finished the first draft in 2016 and absolutely hated it. At the time, it was my first attempt at a long(ish) and plotty fic. It's been sitting on my hard drive ever since, languishing in the hopes that one day it might be something I like enough to post. That has finally happened. As a result, it's a weird mix of my 2015 writing style (which managed to be far more serious and fancy than I use now) and my current one, and has some weird habits, flaws, etc. I have been editing this fic rather than outright rewriting it (...most of the time) and I'll admit some clunky aspects I've decided to just leave in. Maybe I'm charmed by it, what can I say. One of the problems of this fic sitting in the dark for so long is that the Forever fandom is basically non-existent now, but I'm hoping that everyone who is still here will find some enjoyment in this fic.
> 
> I would also like to thank Idelthoughts/Truthisademurelady for answering my many asks five years ago about trying to write a long fic and what to when you hate the result, lol. She is 90% of the reason that I never gave up on this fic.
> 
> Please note that this is a dark and quite brutal fic (but hopefully also sweet and optimistic?). I'm warning for everything I can think of but I have the mind of a faulty sieve and forget tags all the time, so please remind me if there's something I've missed! And ask me if there's something in the tags you're worried about, either here or on my tumblr at themidnightcircusshow. I'll be tagging each individual chapter, and will try to do a run down in the chapter end notes for the triggering or squicky content.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: References to human trafficking, attempted murder, actual murder (as per usual on this show), and past gun violence

Jo Martinez had been greatly looking forward to her weekend off. She had spent the evening wrapped in a blanket, with a glass of wine and far more junk food than was good for her, watching old dvds. CSI: Miami, to be precise. Other people had reality tv or Shonda soaps as their guilty pleasures, this was hers. Plus, two glasses of wine was more than enough for her to begin to entertain fantasies of forcing Henry to watch it. (The cheesy inaccuracies would probably make him cry).

So, when she was brutally woken up from a rather lovely dream involving Idris Elba and a massage, and she was forced to get out of her cocoon of warm blankets at eight in the morning, it came as quite a shock. Suffice to say, Jo was not pleased.

Standing at the door was a man, a somewhat handsome man in a tweed cap and a dark coat. He smiled at her, wrinkles forming at the corners of his eyes. Jo did not think he found such an act comfortable, and he quickly dropped the smile into a stern expression that seemed much more fitting.

“Jo Martinez?” He asked. His voice was deep. Nice. And very British. Of course he was, if there was any annoyance to be present in her life it was to be accompanied by a British accent and a good fashion sense. Jo wondered if Henry would turn up at eight in the damn morning and barge in on her very rare time off (He would. He most certainly would. He probably already had). At least if it had been Henry on her doorstep, she could have slammed the door in his face. Or made him make her the finest coffee imaginable. Or even make _him_ give her a massage as Idris Elba was sadly unavailable.

“Yes,” she croaked, her voice lamenting sudden usage before sufficient liquid sustenance. The man reached into a pocket inside his coat and pulled out his wallet, handing her a business card and several forms of identification. 

“I am Adam Harper, a private investigator. I was wondering if I could speak with you about a missing persons case?” The man asked, his face remaining stern. It said on his business card that he was a former detective of Scotland Yard- her brain placed special emphasis on the ‘former’.

“I’m not sure why you would want to talk to me about a missing person in England,” Jo said, handing back the man’s wallet. She had a very explicit rule not to trust unless given evidence otherwise, especially with her gut screaming at her to shoot the guy and run. But that may have just been the fact that it was freezing and she was standing on her doorstep in pajamas and a robe when she could have easily been in bed and having much more fun with Mr. Elba. And the guy knew she would be here, so he knew where she lived (bad) and most likely knew it was her day off (even worse). 

“I think you would be able to provide far more help than you think, detective.” He gave her a slight smile, with no wrinkles and cold eyes. He looked terrifying. 

“What is the name of the missing person?” Jo asked, and the man returned his wallet and put his hands to his sides. He looked military. 

“Henry Morgan.”

Jo felt like she had gone skinny dipping in the Hudson. 

\---

Jo sat down at her kitchen table, steaming mug of coffee in her hands. She had not offered the man anything, and could quite frankly not give a damn if he thought it was impolite. Turning up at eight in the morning on someone’s day off to tell them one of their closest friends was a registered missing person was freaking impolite. 

“Why are you looking for Henry?” She asked, after several gulps of coffee and time to at least somewhat gather her thoughts. 

“My employer has been looking for him for some time,” the man replied, and Jo’s mind flicked back to Henry’s stalker, to her friend standing over his dead body; terrified and broken at having taken another man’s life. She would not put him through that again. 

“As he has been looking for Henry for quite a while without progress,” the man continued. “He thought it best to hire me. Something must have happened to make him… desperate.”

He still betrayed no sign of emotion. Jo looked at him, and knew that this was one of the nightmares that would refuse to crack in an interrogation room. She thought about the worst killers, how they had remained calm and blank without a damn care in the world. (She thought about herself, hardened by her life and her loss and she remembered that having a safe for an outer shell didn’t necessarily mean monster).

“How long is a long time?” She asked, and she felt wrong, as if talking about this behind Henry’s back was a betrayal of some kind. But this was something he should have told her, something she should have found when she went digging after the subway crash, then after the email form the hacker (was this what she had been telling her to look for?). Tracks covered as well as that was not a missing person- that was someone on the run. 

“Almost seven years,” the man answered, and Jo felt like she was going to be sick. That was a long time.

“How does someone take seven years to hire someone to search for a missing person…” Jo said, more to herself to the man, and he smiled again. The menacing smile. 

“What can you tell me about Henry?” the man asked, and Jo’s head shot up. Every protective instinct she had yelled at her.

“I’m not telling you anything that will help you find him unless I know you can be trusted,” she spat, the memory of Henry’s trembling as he told her what danger he was in echoing through her. 

The man sighed. “Detective, I must inform you that I am very good at my job. I will find him.”

“Not with my help,” Jo replied, and the man shook his head. 

“Very well,” he got to his feet. “I know very well how stubborn you can be. It is an admirable trait, when caring for your friends. If a little misguided, in this circumstance.”

The man moved to the door, Jo following close behind. He pulled the door open and halfway out the door, he turned to her.

“Tell Henry his father sends his regards.” Then he closed the door, and was gone. 

Jo sank back down into her seat, tangling a hand in her hair. She knew well enough that Henry had his secrets, and on the most part she allowed them. He allowed her to keep hold of her own, so it was the least she could do to extend the same courtesy. Being on the run with his father sending terrifying private investigators after him seven years later was not what she expected to be one of them. 

Restlessly, she began to pace around the room, before striding into her bedroom and pulling open the bottom drawer of her bedside table. She pulled out a brown folder and took it back into the kitchen, sitting back down with her mostly forgotten cup of coffee. 

She pulled the file open and began to strew every piece of information she had on Henry Morgan across the table. On the notepad she had stowed away inside she wrote down the new pieces that she had just been informed of, and tried to link them to the puzzle.

Looking at the web of files and photos and little notes of everything he had said, Jo began to wonder if learning your friend and trusted partner was possibly a complete fabrication was enough to crack open the vodka at what was now nine am. 

\---

It was the peak of the afternoon when Jo arrived at the park on Monday. The morning frost had melted from the ground, sun belting out heat to counteract that bitter air. It was the type of winter that had Jo’s face pink with warmth but the rest of her huddled in scarves and coats. Of course, she probably had exhaustion to blame for her being cold-- her weekend had been spent frustratedly going through old notes, mentally mulling over every odd comment Henry had ever made, and pacing around her house staring at her cell phone while Henry’s number begged for her to call it. She was beat, in every sense of the word.

Hanson was waiting for her beyond the crime scene tape. He did a quick scan of her as soon as he noticed something was wrong, but didn’t comment on it. Hanson had had to deal with plenty of similar days following Sean’s death, when she would turn up to crime scenes barely on the right side of sober and without having showered in a few days. Instead, he nodded to her from where he stood in his reasonable amount of layers, before leading her to the body inevitably waiting.

“Vic’s female, caucasion, late twenties to early thirties. Massive blow to the back of the head. A guy walking his dog found her, no one else even noticed,” Hanson explained as he led her to a tree with branches heavy with leaves, like a sheet draped over it. The woman was lying beneath it, arm poking out. Not too far away was the remnants of a picnic. It would have been near impossible for nobody to have noticed her.

“This doesn’t make sense,” Jo said. 

“I agree!” Henry beckoned her closer. “Her body temperature indicates time of death to be around nine o’clock last night, but there is no evidence of frost anywhere on her. In fact, I would say she has only been here for an hour, two at most.” 

That made even less sense.

“So, a guy killed this woman last night, waited ‘til the middle of the day, and then dragged her body into the middle of a busy park in broad daylight. And no one saw him?!” Frustration overtook her, remnants of a weekend less spent resting and more spent obsessing over mysterious British men being chased by other mysterious British men. More puzzles was not what she desired out of this experience.

“Any I.D.?” Jo asked, and Henry shook his head. 

“She has no wallet, no phone, no jewellery. No identifiable markings, no one recognises her. Just a Jane Doe,” Lucas said. 

Jo leaned down. The woman’s hair was lightly tangled in the way hair did after a day’s work. She was in jeans and a tattered hoodie, but her nails were well taken care of and she was wearing neutral makeup. She wasn’t wearing footwear, just a pair of fluffy socks. It was the type of clothes Jo was wearing on her days off. 

“I don’t think she was planning to go out,” Jo said. 

“Her makeup is done, but not fresh. There’s some smudging on the bottom of her right eyelid, probably the result of her rubbing her eye or low quality makeup smudging throughout the day. Her hair had been styled but was falling out of place, and her clothes are too worn for someone who takes the time to get a manicure,” Henry said. He looked like a puppy overeager to please its master. Jo wasn’t ready to think about what that made her in the situation. 

“If T.O.D was last night, she probably was relaxing at home,” Jo said. “Her socks aren’t dirty on the soles, either.”

“So we’re looking at a home invasion?” Hanson asked.

“Most likely.” Henry leaned over the body, carefully so that the ice on the tree wouldn’t fall on him. “Three of her nails on her right hand have been chipped or broken entirely. I would suggest that they are defensive wounds.”

“So the murder that looks like a murder is in fact a murder?” Hanson smirked at Henry, who just rolled his eyes.

“Don’t worry, detective. I’m not going to complicate every case you have.” 

Jo would like to disagree.

They packed up the body, asked the dog walker more questions, like if he saw anyone carrying anything large enough to hold a body (he hadn’t). She wondered if Henry was perhaps wrong, if the girl had just dried out like the rest of the grass (she couldn’t have. The tree would have obscured her from the sun. There were still white flecks beneath the draping leaves). Then a nasty voice whispered that perhaps Henry was wrong because he was a fraud, because he was a man on the run with an obviously forged paper trail. But he was almost always right. There was no reason to suspect that he was any less brilliant than he seemed. 

Henry was about to get in the van with the body, before Jo ran over.

“Hey, you wanna come with me? I’ve finished up here and am heading back anyway. Hanson can handle this.” It was true, her remaining presence there was unnecessary, and this was possibly her last opportunity to get Henry alone for a while.

Henry smiled, his eyes betraying a slight hint of confusion, before he acquiesced. They slid into Jo’s car and drove in near silence, betrayed only by Henry occasionally drumming his fingers on various pieces of a car the way he sometimes did ( _nerves,_ she supplied. _Must have been in a car accident_ ). It would explain why Henry never got behind the wheel. Henry had a few quirks like that-- never fully comfortable in cars, certainly not comfortable on trains, and the one time their case had taken them onto a (docked) boat he had nearly had a heart attack. Jo sometimes wondered if Henry really hated traveling, except from the sound of it he had traveled practically everywhere ( _on the run, on the run, on the run_ ). Henry had either a blanket fear or had been in a lot of life threatening situations _(because he’s a missing person. Dammit, Jo, how didn’t you know?_ )

It was almost halfway in their journey when Jo took a detour and parked the car. A rare moment of silence passed, without fingers tapping or scrounging, as Henry tried to figure out what Jo was going to say and Jo figured out how she was going to say it. He smiled at her, the smile that was awkward on most people and said ‘I don’t know what is happening so I’m just going to sit here and be confused’, but also charming. Maybe it was selfish of her, okay it was definitely selfish of her, but Jo wanted to ask nothing just so that she could keep Henry as her annoying but delightful partner forever.

“I got a visit Saturday morning,” Jo said after a few minutes, and Henry turned to her. “It was an English P.I. Ex Scotland Yard. He was asking about you.”

Concern flashed in Henry’s face, but he squashed it down in what he probably assumed was a short enough time for Jo not to notice. How many flashes of expression had she missed because she wasn’t looking hard enough? What else could she have seen about Henry if she had paid just a little more attention? Jo took in another deep breath.

“He said he was employed by your father,” Jo said. “He said you went missing a few years ago.”

Henry looked as if all his blood had been drained from him, and she was fairly certain he was struggling not to be sick. Jo grimaced, feeling every spark of hope she had that whatever was going on would have a perfectly reasonable, and not at all terrifying explanation die. Instead, Henry had the same expression he had had when she found him in his lair with a fake passport and a murder weapon.

“Henry, are you in danger?” Jo asked, trying to hide the fear in her voice. As awful as it was, she hoped that Henry was just in danger. She couldn’t bear the thought that perhaps it was Henry who was dangerous. Either way, Henry was obviously terrified, and Jo knew that when someone was scared they needed the help of someone that could at least pretend not to be. Henry took a shaking breath, before smiling.

“No, Jo, it’s nothing at all to be concerned about-”

“Please don’t lie to me,” Jo interrupted, because she knew him better than that and if he didn’t let her help him now she knew she would never see him again. She did not want him to vanish into the sunset like he had tried to do before. Like he clearly had done before, seven years ago. Henry’s eyes filled up with tears, and he shook his head. 

“I can’t, Jo… I can’t.”

“I can help you!” Jo cried, but he just continued to shake his head.

“No, you can’t. Jo, all you can do is forget I ever existed. Trust me,” Henry pleaded, and Jo was getting the very strong urge to shake him. He reminded her of some of the people she had encountered, abuse victims who tried to stay with their abusers and people being booked with murder who had done so in self defense but had been so terrified that they had taken the harsher charge. People who were so scared they refused help. People who ended up dead. She knew that was what would happen to Henry.

“I swear I won’t let you out of this car until you tell me if that is what it takes. They already know I’m connected to you, so don’t claim to be protecting me. You’re my friend. Let me help you.” Jo knew she was being harsh, but she was fed up with people trying to hurt a pretty decent guy, even if he could get on her nerves. 

Henry slumped into his seat, trembling. Part of her wished she had never brought it up, feeling like she had just ripped open a hole in the floor that they both were standing on and was now causing them to go into a free fall. 

“My father…” Henry began, “is the head of a shipping company. A few years ago, I found out that he was doing some trade under the table and--” Henry laughed bitterly. “Let’s just say we’re no longer in contact.”

Jo thought for a moment. 

“Drugs?” She asked, and Henry shook his head again, before turning to her. His eyes had gone red.

“People,” he replied, and Jo was certain both of them were about to be sick now. And she thought her father was bad. 

“Was he the one that shot you?” Jo asked timidly, thinking back to a simpler time when she could never dream of having to ask Henry that question. Thankfully, he shook his head.

“That was one of his associates. My father likes to pretend that he is acting with a conscience. Does just enough good to help him sleep at night.”

Jo still had plenty of questions. Did Abe’s mother have anything to do with this? Was that why he got so over invested in her case? It was one of the few times that she had seen Henry as distraught as he was now, so there was a chance the two events were connected in some way. What about Abe himself, where did he come into the picture? 

“Why has your father sent someone after you now? If he didn’t send someone earlier to protect you, why has he changed his mind?” Jo asked, and Henry shuddered. He didn’t answer, though. It was purely reasonable that Adam Harper had been sent here to get Henry some protection. To return him into the loving arms of his father. But the look on Henry’s face crushed that theory immediately. The mysterious Daddy Morgan may not have been the one to pull the trigger, but Jo was fairly certain that he had made the order (or at least Henry had reason to believe he did). She thought back to the scar on Henry’s chest. That close to his heart, it must have very nearly killed him. Her stomach churned. 

“I would greatly appreciate it if you took me home, Jo,” Henry said quietly. “I need to tell Abe what has happened.”

Jo nodded, and began the drive to the antique shop. When they arrived, Henry hurried in, shutting the door quickly behind them and changing the shop sign to ‘closed’. Behind them, Jo could have sworn she saw a glimpse of a man in a tweed cap. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jo liking CSI:Miami is a reference to Alana de la Garza's role in that show, which was the first thing I saw her in. I had such a crush on her, and then when I started watching Forever I didn't even recognise her! A crime, I know


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry and Abe prepare to go on the run, and Henry reminiscences about his grandmother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Comparatively, this is a light chapter...
> 
> Warnings: Domestic abuse and references to suicide, all shown through the mind of a child

Abe could feel a dull throb in his back from being bent over for too long. His newest acquisition-- a 19th century coffee table-- had a dent in the carving at the top of one leg, and he was trying to determine if it could be easily repaired or if the dent would decrease the value. He startled when the door to the antique’s shop slammed shut behind him, hitting his head on a duchess behind him. He turned around to see Henry flipping over the sign from ‘open’ to ‘closed’. 

Henry looked like a trapped animal, trembling violently with red eyes and deathly pale skin. It had been a long time since Abe had seen Henry look like that-- by all that was good in the world, he had never wanted to see it again. 

“Henry, what’s wrong?” Abe slowly pulled himself to his feet. Henry made no move to help him, all but running to the stairs to their apartment. Abe reached out a hand and grabbed Henry as he moved past, causing Henry to nearly wrench his arm out of its socket before realising he had been stopped.

“They know, they know I’m here, they sent someone to Jo a few days ago, Abe _they know_.” Henry steamrolled his way through the words, breath coming in sharp gasps. He tried to move away again, like a wolf caught in a trap getting ready to chew off its leg.

“Henry, calm down,” Abe reached over and grabbed Henry’s other arm, keeping him from twisting away. Up close he could see that Henry’s eyes were wet, and he could hear both of their hearts pounding. “What do you mean they sent someone to Jo-- Henry, breathe dammit!”

Henry was barrelling towards hysteria, each breath a desperate gasp for air, his eyes flicking around the room. One hand reached up and Abe thought Henry was going to make him release his grip, but instead Henry grabbed for his scarf, tugging at it as if he was trying to rip it to pieces. 

“A P.I.,” Henry said, and for a moment looked exasperated at his inability to convey the information he wanted to without panicking.

“A P.I.,” Abe repeated. “What’s so bad about a P.I.?”

“He said he was from my father,” Henry moaned. Then, closer to a child than Abe had seen him for a long time, asked, “What am I going to do?” 

Abe took a deep breath. The world had gone silent, even the grandfather clock seemed to have lost its sound. Abe could feel an entire well of emotions building up-- anger, sadness, regret, but mostly an awful lot of fear. None of them would help Henry. He made himself as calm as he could.

“Tomorrow, go to work. Finish what you’re working on-- they’ll ask questions if you leave too soon.” Abe reached up to touch Henry’s face. “Give yourself a chance to say goodbye, unlike last time.” 

Henry slumped to sit on the stairs, resting his head in his hands. He nodded and wiped at his eyes. 

“They already know we’re here,” Henry said, his voice thick. “Jo will ask questions, so I will have… We will have to be completely untraceable.” Henry looked around, his brow furrowed. “You love this shop.”

“Eh, it’s just a shop. I’m past retirement age, anyway.” 

Henry raised an eyebrow. 

“I mean, I am!” Abe pointed at Henry firmly. “Doesn’t mean I’m _going_ to. Just need to make sure neither of those ghouls get a hand on my stuff.”

Henry huffed, the smallest hint of a smile appearing on his face. The poor kid looked absolutely miserable. Abe felt the reawakening of an old urge to find his brother and wring his neck. Abe knelt down and gave Henry a reassuring pat on the knee, like he did when Henry was young. 

“None of this makes sense.” Henry stared into the distance. “There’s no trail between us and New York. I keep my name and photo out of news reports. How did they find us here? Why now? Do they know we found Grandma?” Henry’s voice hitched. “We didn’t find out who she was with, what if th--”

“Henry!” Abe barked, shocking Henry out of his stupor. “The only person who would want to hurt us over Mom is six feet under. She had nothing to do with what Thomas mixed himself up in, she was long gone by the time he started all of this--”

“Unless he lied to me,” Henry whispered. His face hardened. “Again.”

“I won’t let them near you, ok kid? I won’t let them hurt you,” Abe said, gently stroking his hand over Henry’s back. Both of them knew that it didn’t matter, that if they caught up to Henry they would do what they liked. And Abe couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

\---

_1983_

There were an awful lot of people crowded on the lawn. All surrounding a big lump on the ground. Some were weeping, even Thomas Morgan. Henry found that very strange, because his father never cried. Henry began walking forward, wanting to see what everyone was looking at. Uncle Abe looked up and saw him coming, and told him not to come further. Abe sounded upset too. It was all very strange. 

“Hi sweetheart!” Henry’s vision of the crowd was blocked by his grandmother, who knelt down in front of him. She was shaking. Her hair was loose, and she didn’t have shoes on even though she was outside. Henry had never seen her look anything less than perfect. “Have you had breakfast yet?”

Henry shook his head. He had only just got out of bed, woken up by the noises outside. The sun was hurting his eyes, and he yawned. Grandma smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. 

“Why don’t we go inside and get something to eat, hm? It’s a bit chilly out, and goodness you’re still in your pajamas!” Grandma put her arms around Henry’s shoulders, ushering him away from the crowd inside. She continued talking to him but he didn’t pay attention, trying to catch a glimpse of what was behind them. Grandma knew what he was trying to do, and as always, she was too smart for him, making sure that she was in his line of sight at all times. But at no point did she laugh about his curiosity, like she normally would. 

“What’s going on?” Henry asked over a bowl of cereal, and Grandma let out a soft whimper. She walked towards him, putting a wrinkled hand on his head and petting his hair. Again, she smiled, almost as if it hurt. She didn’t have her makeup on either. 

“Henry… your Mummy isn’t going to be around anymore,” Grandma said soothingly. 

“Why not?” He asked, which was obviously the wrong thing to do, because his grandmother began crying. 

Outside, he heard ambulance sirens, and through the window managed to glimpse paramedics lifted someone onto a stretcher. He caught a flash of his mother’s favourite soft blue dress from under the sheet. The fabric had stains on it, grass and something dark he didn’t recognise. She would be very upset-- she hated stains. He had once seen her scrubbing at a stain in one of her dresses for hours. 

His grandmother had stayed with him for the rest of the day, and Uncle Abe came to say hello sometimes as well. He didn’t see anyone else, except for a flash of his older sister looking white as a sheet. Henry asked where everyone was, but his grandmother wouldn’t tell him much, instead distracting him with stories or games where they would guess the different parts of the body.

“Your dad and your siblings need some time, so you get to stay with me!” Grandma had explained the next day, after Henry had spent the night listening to the family alternating between crying and shuffling around like zombies. Henry was happy about that-- he enjoyed staying with his grandmother. His grandfather was scary, but he wasn’t around much anymore. And his grandmother was always nice to him and doted on him. Everyone liked to joke that he was her favourite grandchild. 

Henry stayed with his grandmother, for a week, and then two, until it had been almost a month since he had been home. His siblings would call to talk to him, each sounding exhausted and sad. He hoped he would be able to see them soon. His father never called, and had pushed Henry away when Henry tried to hug him the day they had all dressed in black and listened to people talk about his mother.

Not once, while Henry stayed with her, did his grandmother mention his grandfather. Most of the photos that had him in them had been taken down, and there were very few of his things in the house. Henry had wondered if his grandfather had gone to the same place as his mother, until he came back. His mother wasn’t coming back.

Henry and his grandmother were sitting at her kitchen table, eating cookies (Grandma Morgan had always been the best cook) as they read a big book of comics that his father and uncle had had as children. They had gotten them when they were living in America, Grandma had explained, and Henry had gotten distracted asking her questions about what America was like. She was telling him about pretzels (large and soft things, big enough to hold in both hands, unlike the hard and small pretzels they had in England) when someone began pounding on the door. 

“Sylvia!” Someone roared from outside. Henry’s grandmother went pale and swore beneath her breath (Henry mentally promised not to tell on her). She turned to him.

“Henry, sweetie, go upstairs. Go upstairs, and if I don’t come to get you by morning I want you to call your dad from the upstairs phone. Can you do that sweetie?” She asked quietly, and he nodded. She smiled, and let him go. 

Henry bounded up the landing, his grandmother watching him until he disappeared. He did not go to his room, however, instead hiding in the shadows, keeping his head out just far enough that he could see what was going on downstairs. Content that Henry was safe, his grandmother opened the door. His grandfather stormed in, his clothes disheveled, his hair mussed up. He smelled awful, so awful that Henry could smell him from upstairs and still had to cover his nose.

“I told you not to come here--” his grandmother sounded furious, but her voice was shaking as if she was afraid of something. 

“How could you not tell me?!” His grandfather bellowed. “Not only does my wife abandon me, but apparently I don’t even deserve a phone call to tell me my daughter in law offed herself!”

Henry was not sure what ‘offed herself’ meant, but his grandmother seemed horrified that Grandfather had said it. She began yelling back at him, something about being ‘callous’ and no longer being welcome in the family. The yelling continued between them for a few more minutes, until his grandfather raised a hand and struck her in the face. Everything went still for a moment, his grandmother gently pressing her hand where his grandfather had slapped her. And then everything moved again.

Henry watched in horror as his grandfather began to hit and kick his grandmother, even after she was lying on the ground. His grandfather began to stomp his foot on her, and Henry let out a strangled cry. His grandfather’s head snapped up, looking directly where Henry was hiding. Henry sprinted into his grandma’s room, where he knew the phone was. 

Henry picked up the phone and began to dial. He had always been told to remember three numbers-- his parents, Abe, and his grandmother. He wasn’t sure whose he was dialing, as long as it was someone that could help. Grandma had only said to call in the morning, but he was scared, and very much wanted someone to come and save them from his grandfather. 

“Hello?” The person on the other line asked. It was his Uncle Abe, and Henry felt so much relief he almost forgot to speak. Then he heard movement downstairs. 

“Grandfather’s here, he’s hurting Grandma, you have to come, you have to!” Henry begged. He knew he was supposed to be quiet, but he had forgotten how to be. On the other end, Henry heard yelling from Abe. He winced. 

“Henry, I want you to hide somewhere safe, do you understand?” Abe sounded out of breath. “Your father and I will be as quick as we can but please, stay hidden, can you do that?”

“Mm-hm…” Henry was starting to realise how dark it was. The sun must have been setting.

“I’m going to hang up now, we’re coming Henry.”

The phone clicked to signal it was turned off, even though Henry didn’t want Uncle Abe to go. They were coming, he told himself. They were coming to help him and Grandma. Henry put down the receiver. He crawled underneath the bed, still too scared of the shadows in the closet to go near it. In his head, he asked the monster not to eat him, because he had to hide from a scary monster that had hurt his grandma. Henry hoped that the monster was nice, and thought that hurting grandmas was just a step too far. Maybe it would eat his grandfather instead.

Henry’s breathing felt too loud, each inhale and exhale echoing in his ears. Faintly, he swore he could hear his grandfather’s footsteps. Floorboards creaked, either as the house settled or beneath his grandfather’s weight. It sounded like his grandfather was drawing closer and closer. 

He felt like the mattress was watching him. That each spring had eyes boring into his back. Every hair he had was standing on end. He swore he could feel breath whispering over his neck. His body was tensed like a vice, he could feel each molecule, each piece of dust. 

Another footstep. A door was creaking open. His grandfather was coming in. Henry’s feet were exposed. Someone could grab them, pull him out, he was going to be found. His grandfather walked around the room, slowly, weight on the front of his feet and then settling onto the back. Henry could see the feet drawing closer to the bed. 

He covered his mouth. His breathing was too loud. The bed was going to be lifted up and his grandfather was going to hit him like he hit Grandma. Sweat beaded on Henry’s forehead, the feet drawing closer and closer to the bed, to where Henry was hiding. A hand reached down, pulling the hanging covers up slowly, more and more of Henry’s hiding place being revealed. 

Hands reached in. Grabbed him. Pulled him out from under the bed. Henry screamed. He thrashed and hit. Tried to hurt so he could escape. He needed to go help Grandma. The arms were holding him tighter. Grandfather was going to hurt him, too. There was more yelling. Henry waited for the blow. 

It didn’t come. The hands didn’t hurt, just held him closer to their body. Ran their hand through his hair, like Grandma did. They were saying something, over and over again. Whoever it was, they smelled familiar. Henry looked up.

“It’s me, it’s Daddy, it’s okay…” Thomas Morgan was muttering, holding Henry like a vice. Henry almost didn’t recognise him, he looked so old now, but it was his father. His father’s eyes and clothes and weird smelling stuff adults put on.

“Daddy!” Henry sobbed, throwing his arms around his father’s neck. 

“Did he hurt you?” Thomas asked, pulling away from his son in order to examine him. Henry shook his head, before putting his arms around his father again. His father held him tightly, so tightly that Henry’s ribs hurt, but he didn’t want his father to let go.

“Abe’s called the hospital, they’re coming for Grandma.” Henry shook his head, panicking again.

“Don’t let them take her away,” Henry pleaded. His father looked down at him, clearly confused. “They took Mum away and now she isn’t coming back!”

His father sighed, and pressed a kiss into Henry’s hair. 

“Let’s go, okay?” Thomas lifted Henry from the ground and carried him downstairs, one hand placed on the back of his head reassuringly. 

“Get him out of here,” Grandma said when they got downstairs. She was sitting on the couch, Uncle Abe handing her a fat tea towel. Henry could see her face, purple and swollen. There was blood crusted on her chin, having come from a cut on her lip. She winced with every movement, clutching the tea towel to the side of her chest. Her pantyhose had ripped, and there was blood on her fingers. Henry was not sure if it was her blood, or if she had managed to hurt his grandfather back. (“Never fight, Henry,” his dad had told him. “If someone is hurting you, go get an adult.” But what if you were an adult? Who would you get then? Perhaps it was only adults who were allowed to fight.)

Henry tried to go over to her, but his father just held him tighter and carried him out to the car. He never saw his grandmother alive again. When he asked, the answer was always the same. “She’s gone away for a while.” Henry hoped that, wherever she had gone, she was safe from the monsters. 

For many years, Henry’s dreams were haunted by monsters hurting his grandmother. His thoughts were plagued by her screams as his grandfather beat her. And every time he closed his eyes, he thought of her, hunted by monsters so scary that she was no longer allowed to visit. And then his thoughts turned to other things, of mothers that jumped from the roof in the early hours of a winter morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gave Henry his canon birth date, plus 200 years, so he would have been around 4 in these flashbacks.
> 
> Fun fact: I was obsessed with Forever at the same time I started watching Penny Dreadful, and the result is that in my mind Henry grew up in a Gothic horror and has a very dark and tragic backstory (not helped by the portrait of Henry's family-- Henry doesn't read like an oldest child to me, especially because he isn't encouraged in any way to join his father's business which was sort of expected of eldest sons. So I've always been on team Henry-was-the-baby-in-the-portrait, but then why does Henry end up with the pocket watch? Sure his father wanted to reach out to him, and maybe Henry was the favourite, but maybe something terrible happened to the older brother! And then when it came to writing this fic I gave the older brother's storyline to the mother. 
> 
> Find me at themidnightcircusshow.tumblr.com or on ao3! Comments are welcome


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is worried about Henry. Abe explains some things to Jo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw yeah time for some plot
> 
> Warnings: Nothing too bad, just some references to domestic abuse from the last chapter and ableism

Henry came into work the next morning with red rimmed eyes surrounded by dark circles. He didn’t have his usual stubble, instead looking like he had not shaved at all. Most strangely was that it was freezing outside, and Henry hadn’t even thought to put on a scarf. 

Lucas thought to comment on it, but instead decided to hold his tongue. He didn’t want to seem like he was prying, knowing that if ever there was a time when Henry did not want questions into his personal life, it was now. Henry almost looked worse than he had when they found Abe’s mother, and that was something that Lucas definitely did not want to aggravate. If Henry was upset enough to leave work without notifying anyone at the morgue, he didn’t need assistants poking around to make it worse.

The autopsy on the murder victim from the day before was the most stressful one they had ever done. It had taken minutes for Henry’s hands to stop shaking long enough to make the first incision. Throughout each step, Henry looked like a caged animal. He had almost sliced a lung in half jumping at a shadow, and had knocked over the tray of surgical instruments when someone came in and slammed the door behind them. 

“Woah, Doc, you okay?” Detective Hanson asked, walking into the morgue. Henry gave a shaky smile.

“I’m fine, Detective. I just didn’t sleep much last night,” Henry replied, before doing the final stitches. 

Hanson didn’t look very convinced, but Jo looked as if she had been punched in the stomach. She also looked like hell, but at least seemed to be less shaky than the Doc. Lucas hoped they hadn’t had some kind of fight. They both looked like they had seen their small corner of the world ending. That wouldn’t explain Henry’s sudden fear of dark corners and sudden loud noises, though, unless Jo had decided to go all Detective Martinez on him.

“I can confirm that time of death was approximately nine thirty Sunday night, cause of death a drug overdose.” Henry’s voice was weak, rather than holding the sure confidence he usually had when delivering an autopsy report. He pointed to a small, dark bruise on the victim’s forehead. He cleared his throat. “It seems the killer hit her over the head to render her unconscious with a small, angular object. Possibly the butt of a gun. Bruising on the opposite side of her face suggests that she hit her head on the way down. Then, my best guess is that they drugged her and accidentally gave her too much.”

“No idea on how he got her into the park. Or why he waited so long. Or why anything really,” Lucas added.

“Nothing to really help with identification either, I’m afraid,” Henry said, his eyes constantly darting to the doors. 

“No need, Doc,” Hanson said after a brief pause. He was staring at Henry like he was a flighty suspect. Lucas fought the urge to step in front of Henry, even though he knew Hanson had no reason to arrest Henry outside of petty workplace grievances. Hanson broke the stare to produce a manilla folder.

“We found a missing person’s hit on her from yesterday morning. Apparently she didn’t turn up to work for the past two days which isn’t like her, and then her landlady found her apartment completely empty. But, we ran the vic’s fingerprints and--” Hanson pulled open the folder, pointing to a photograph of the victim, with brown hair. She was smiling grimly. “Meet Melanie Rowen. Our vic was in witness protection. Saw a guy get shanked outside a club, put the guy that did it behind bars.”

Henry and Jo both looked stricken. Hanson and Lucas glanced at each other, and discerned that neither knew what was going on between them. Whatever it was, it was beginning to develop from ‘mildly concerning’ to ‘absolutely terrifying’. 

“So… any brilliant deductions? Wild leaps that are entirely correct?” Hanson asked, and Henry began to remove his gloves.

“Not today, Detective. That is all I can do for you. Don’t worry, I’m sure you will figure it out,” Henry smiled. “You always do.”

Hanson made a facial expression caught somewhere between ‘extreme confusion’ and ‘unexpectedly touched’. He opened his mouth to speak, but Jo gently touched his arm and directed him towards the door. Hanson turned back as they were leaving. Jo kept him walking forward, her shoulders stooped but firmly facing ahead.

Henry began to head into his office.

“Hey, if you wanna talk…” Lucas began, and Henry smiled at him. 

“I know. Thank you, Lucas. For everything.”

Henry then walked into his office, shutting the door behind him. Well, that was not vaguely ominous. Not at all ‘final words before mentor makes grand heroic sacrifice and dies terribly’. Lucas really needed to stop thinking of constant pop culture references when his boss was like someone ripped straight from a novel. 

\---

“He didn’t figure it out!” Hanson paced around his desk, stirring his coffee in the hopes that he could break down the oversized grounds so they didn’t make him feel like he was drinking sand. “Usually he’d be able to… I don’t know, smell the vic, and boom ‘she’s in witness protection, her perfume has a trace of hidden identity’. Isn’t it weird? Jo?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah… Weird.”

Jo was sitting at her desk, bouncing a pencil on her pad for long enough that the indent was breaking through the page. She had been off all day: it had taken him four tries to get her to respond to him when she came in that morning, and then she had spent the rest of the morning zoning in and out. She was clearly exhausted, but had been too absentminded to touch her coffee before it had gone cold and then had continually drunk sips from it even though it was hours since it had been even moderately tepid.

Hanson mulled over the pros and cons of getting involved. Jo liked her privacy, sometimes too much. She had withdrawn into herself after Sean’s death, which had been fine at the start but Hanson had been ready to stage an intervention by the time she got her drinking under control. The Doc was even worse-- the man revealed absolutely nothing about his personal life, aside from living with an older man in an antique’s shop who Hanson was still not one hundred percent sure wasn’t his older lover. Jo made some noises about Henry potentially having an ex-wife, but that was it. Hell, the Doc had hidden that he had a stalker until said stalker tried to frame him for murder.

No, while he fully respected his friends and their right to privacy, both had proven themselves to be more than willing to suffer in silence.

“So, what’s with you and Doc?” Hanson asked.

Jo all but jumped. “Henry? Why would you think there was something wrong with Henry?”

“Because you both look rotten. Did something happen between the two of you?”

Jo hesitated.

“Not… not like that.” She reached over for her mug of coffee and grimaced when she drank it. She peered into the cup and frowned. It must have finally dawned on her that the coffee was cold.

He knew about her crush on the Doc, and God knows he could understand it. Even aside from his British charm and frankly ridiculous good looks (that were not lost on Hanson much to his wife’s unrepentant glee), Henry had managed to communicate with Jo on levels that no one else could. Birds of a feather, he guessed. Jo had accidentally let slip some comments that had confirmed his suspicions when she was a bit too close to the line between ‘tipsy’ and ‘drunk’. 

Hanson had his misgivings about Henry, originally, and still thought he was too secretive for anyone’s good. But he had tried and failed to keep Jo afloat after Sean’s death. He had no clue what she was going through, and knock on wood that he never would. So he just had to watch her drink herself miserable and sleep with strangers just so she wouldn’t feel alone. Henry changed that. Even if they weren’t meant to be a couple, it did her a lot of good to have a friend. 

Jo took a deep breath.

“I think I screwed things up. Big time.” She turned to Hanson. Her face was lined with pain. “If someone you really cared about was in danger, would you do whatever you could to help them? Even if they tell you to back off?” 

“I… If it was out of pride, or some other misconceived notion, I’d say screw ‘em. At least they’d be alive to hate you,” Hanson replied. Worry began to claw at him.

“What if… what if there’s a chance you might make it worse?” Jo asked, each word seeming to struggle it’s way out of her mouth. Her eyes were wet.

Hanson frowned.

“Then… I’d… If I cared about them, I’d… I don’t know what I would do. I guess it would depend on if the possible benefits outweigh the risk. Jo, what’s this about?”

Jo turned away.

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it, I was just… thinking out loud, you know?” 

Hanson was tempted to call her out, but thought better of it. He wondered what he would do, if Karen was in danger. If she was in danger, and knowing that if he did anything to help he could make it worse. He would go mad, he was sure of it. It didn’t matter who you were, the desire to protect the ones you loved was overwhelming. Even if there was a chance it may do more harm than good. 

Whatever was going on, Hanson was getting more and more concerned with the bodily safety of the resident friendly neighbourhood M.E. And considering Henry had once told him to shoot him so that they could get a clear shot at a murderer holding him hostage, Hanson wasn’t sure there was any more room for extra concern over Henry Morgan’s wellbeing. 

Jo’s phone began ringing, and she answered it. The call didn’t last long, consisting on her end of what were mostly grunts of various kinds mixed in with ‘mm-hm’ and ‘I understand’. The call ended with “I’ll be right there”, and Jo put her phone back in her pocket. 

“I need to go, cover for me?” Jo asked, already leaving. Hanson just waved as she left, Reece frowning as she walked into the room when Jo walked out of it. 

“Is something wrong with Detective Martinez?” Reece asked.

“Personal stuff,” Hanson answered. He handed Reece a copy of the folder on the victim. “Says here that the guy she put away is still in jail, forty year sentence with no successful parole pleas so far…”

\---

There was a sign on the door that said _Abe’s Antiques_ was closed for lunch, sorry for the inconvenience. Jo knocked, and after a brief minute the curtain that hid the shop behind the glass door when it was closed shifted. Abe pulled the door open and hurried her in. The bell above the door rang as Jo closed it. She walked into the antique’s store with her arms wrapped around herself. 

“You wanted to see me?” Jo asked. Abe nodded, rushing her upstairs from prying eyes. 

The flat was in disarray-- Henry was packing. It was the wise decision, and she knew it was going to happen, but the sight of it still made Jo feel like someone had socked her in the chest. The packing seemed to be delayed, though. There was still plenty strewn about, when Jo knew from the stalker incident that Henry could pack and be gone in mere hours.

Abe directed Jo to a seat.

“I heard someone got in contact with you about Henry,” Abe said, placing two cups of tea on the table in front of them. She reached out and took hers, if only to have something to fidget with. 

“Said his name was Adam Harper. Former Scotland Yard, pegged him as military too.”

“Sounds about right. Probably very good, and very ruthless. Tom always knew how to find people that could get the job done,” Abe said, taking a long sip of his tea. Jo figured that was Henry’s dad.

“How do you know him? Henry’s dad, I mean,” Jo asked. “I assume the business partners thing was a cover? Seeing as he’s still alive.”

Abe smiled with one half of his mouth. Jo had always found Abe to be extremely warm and comforting, one of the safest people to be around. It was rare for a cop to feel safe, and it was rarer for her, but he still managed to do it. Now, though. Now he looked as if he was trying to discern the best form of slow and agonising death to inflict on this guy.

“He’s my brother. Adopted. Mom and my father took me in after I was recovered in Auschwitz; they were the ones that found me. Well, world war two, whirlwind romance, all that good stuff. Soon I had a baby brother and was splitting my time between England and America. Helped me pick up the accent rather easily.” Abe took another drink.

“Then Pops turned out to be a right piece of work. Started drinking, began using Mom as a punching bag. Never laid a hand on me. Tried once on Thomas; Mom nearly clawed his eyes out. After half a lifetime of that, she left the trash. Found her again though, when she was taking care of Henry after Annie died. Henry never quite got over that.”

Abe tipped the tea back as if it was a shot glass. He looked how she felt, as if he were praying that the tea was something far stronger. No wonder Henry got so riled up over Sylvia’s case-- given her time of death, he must have been just a little kid when that happened.

“Do you think Henry’s Dad is going to try and hurt him?” Jo asked quietly. 

Abe sat his teacup down with enough restrained force that Jo could have sworn she heard it crack. 

“My gut’s telling me no. But,” Abe began to rub at the hairline above his temple, “my gut also said that Tom would never be part of a human trafficking ring, no matter how far in debt he ended up. He was a bit distant, but not a monster. I guess… well, you know what they say about fathers and sons.” 

Abe stood up and grabbed a bottle from a cupboard high above the fridge. The scotch was dark. He didn’t bother to get a glass. Instead he unscrewed the lid and stood at the sink, taking long gulps.

“I thought he would never hurt the kids. Especially not Henry-- he was always Tom’s favourite. But you’ve seen what Henry’s like; he just can’t let things go. And he’s a good kid-- too good, with no self-preservation instinct. I wish he’d just come to me so we could have made a _plan_ , but he had to see for himself.”

“Abe, why didn’t he just go to the police?” Jo asked, exhaustion leaking through her voice. He could understand wanting to protect his dad, but surely human trafficking had to outweigh familial loyalty. Her scales had tipped over far less.

Abe just laughed bitterly. 

“Jo, this wasn’t that simple. Their customers were nobles, lords and earls and viscounts, politicians and millionaires and the like. Powerful men with very deep pockets. They were taking vagrants, poor kids, prostitutes, drug addicts, and anyone that wouldn’t be missed. Selling the rich the kidnapped poor. All the proof in the world, they have the power to make it disappear in the blink of an eye. And Henry… he’s not exactly someone people will trust.”

Well, Jo thought, that wasn’t completely true. 

“Sure, Henry’s a bit eccentric, and a real pain on the witness stand,” Jo said, “but he’s definitely got enough respectability and qualifications as long as my arm--”

“All the respectability in the world doesn’t add validity to the word of a person in the throes of a psychotic break.”

Henry stood in the middle of the living room, his hands shoved in his pockets as deep as they would go. His eyes were red rimmed and his clothing disheveled. Jo nearly jumped from her skin when she heard him speak. She had been so focused on what Abe was saying that she hadn’t heard Henry come in. 

“What do you mean, psychotic break?” She asked. “There’s no mention of any mental illness of any kind in your records--” Ah yes, the obviously completely one hundred percent true records of a man on the run. Jo sank into her seat. “Falsified?”

Henry nodded. He smiled at her, the painful kind of smile that was more heartwrought than crying. “I believe they call it a ‘major depressive episode’ now. It’s what started my sleep walking. And my self-destructive… tendencies.” 

Both Jo and Abe were familiar enough with these ‘tendencies’ to find the word choice absurdly understated. 

“Henry…” Jo whispered. “Let me help you. I know you said there’s nothing I can do, but this isn’t England. Fancy titles mean nothing here, you heard everyone when we had the case with Cavendish, we can’t even tell the difference between them! Even if we can’t take them down, we can at least make sure you don’t get hurt. Let me protect you!”

“Jo,” Henry’s voice broke. “If they can’t get to me, they can get to the people I care about. My sister, my friends, _Abigail_. And I can’t let any of them get hurt because of me. I can’t live with any more people dying from my mistakes.”

“Henry, maybe Jo’s right.” Henry looked at Abe as if the older man had committed a heinous betrayal. “Our main priority is keeping you safe.”

“Please Henry,” Jo pleaded, as her phone began to ring. She hit ignore, but moments later it began to rang again. It was Hanson. Jo smacked the answer button with her ring finger.

“We found footage on a security camera of a guy dragging one of those farm carts through the park. Definitely big enough to hold a body, and it’s got a cover so no one would notice a thing. Name’s Mark Johnson, he was the vic’s fiance before she had to go into hiding. I’m sending you the address.” 

“I’ll be right there,” Jo said, ending the call. She wiped her forehead. Henry was still staring at Abe, still looking hurt and confused. Jo touched Henry’s arm. “I’ve got to go, but Henry, at least think about this.” Jo turned around once she reached the door. “Please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for all the pov jumps, but the pacing didn't want to slow down to extend them all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The case progresses and Henry gets a mysterious call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is short but plotty.
> 
> No warnings (a miracle!)

“Mark Johnson! Police, open up!” 

There was no response. Hanson and Jo nodded to each other, before Hanson kicked the door down. Uniforms made their way through the apartment, shouting “clear!” as they found it empty. The apartment was completely ordinary, if a little too yellow, but unfortunately a bad taste in decor did not get a murder conviction. 

“Pic of Melanie,” Jo said, examining the photograph. It wasn’t placed somewhere out of view, and the frame was polished. Melanie and Mark had their arms wrapped around each other. They were not smiling broadly in the photograph, but their eyes were lit up and they looked truly happy. Melanie’s engagement ring stood out on her finger. 

“Got multiple toothbrushes!” Hanson called from the bathroom. “Female and male deodorant, makeup kit, hair brush with long blonde hair…”

“Pillows on both sides of the bed have indents on them,” Jo replied. “Lady’s watch.” She pulled a drawer open. “Bra, tights, tampons, there was definitely a woman here, and not just overnight.”

“Think Melanie and Mark got back together? Don’t see why he’d keep a picture of the two of them out in full view of a new flame,” Hanson said, walking around the living room. “No signs of a struggle. I’ll take a look out back, see if there’s any sign of the cart.”

Jo continued to look through the bedroom. Everything pointed to it being shared by a couple; different pillow types, different dressers, wardrobes for male and female clothing. But Melanie’s apartment showed no signs of a roommate, and she had certainly been there often enough for her landlady to notice she was gone.

Jo was rifling through Mark’s drawers when she stumbled upon a bag at the back. It was a jewelry bag, black, and old but not frequently used. She pried it open and poured its contents into her hand. Out came a diamond ring, the band detailed with the modest diamond sitting on top. It was the ring Melanie had been wearing in the photo. It was attached to a chain, similar to the one her own wedding ring was hanging from around her neck. Would explain why Henry didn’t find a tan line. 

“Who are you?” A man demanded from behind her. Jo spun around to see Mark Johnson standing in the doorway, holding a bag of groceries.

“Detective Jo Martinez, NYPD,” Jo said, getting to her feet and showing him her badge. Mark placed the groceries on the kitchen bench-- the bag was just alcohol, and lots of it-- and raised his hands. 

“I didn’t kill Melanie,” he said. His voice sounded wrong, like it was empty of emotion or, frankly, life.

“How did you know Melanie was dead?” Jo asked, taking slow steps forward. 

Mark closed his eyes.

“Because they made me dump the body.”

\---

“Start from the beginning,” Jo said as she sat down. The fluorescent lights in the interrogation room were giving her a headache.

“Mel and I gave up contact when she went underground, to keep her safe.” Mark continued to speak in the same empty voice. It was giving Jo the creeps. It was also achingly familiar, a robotic intonation she had adopted when she stood at the front of the funeral home and thanked people for coming. “But I had to move here for a job, and we ran into each other. Small world…” He laughed sadly. “Things just fell into place, all over again. But we had to keep it secret, any connection between the two of us could get her killed. And it did…”

“What happened?” Hanson asked, and Mark smiled bitterly. 

“We had a date, Sunday night. She didn’t turn up, so I rang the burner cell she has to keep in contact with me. No reply. Little later, I try again. And again. Then a guy picks up, asks me my name, how I know Melanie. I thought maybe she was having an affair, maybe I interrupted something. I was--” Mark shook his head. “--I was actually _angry_. Guy asks me my address, and I knew I wasn’t meant to, that her two worlds had to be kept secret, but then he said that if I didn’t, he’d hurt her. Then, about one in the morning, the doorbell rings, and it’s… it’s…” 

Mark began sobbing, burying his face in his hands. “It’s Melanie, on the doorstep. She’s already dead. The guy rings again, and he… he says that if I don’t dump her body in Central Park the next day he’s going to kill someone else I care about. So I… I…”

Mark gave up trying to speak, weeping into his hands. 

“Would you be able to recognise his voice?” Jo asked, and Mark shook his head.

“I’m not… I’m not good with voices, especially on the phone. He just, he just sounded like a guy. Just a regular guy.”

\---

“Do you buy it?” Reece asked, all of them standing in the observation room. 

“His phone records do support his story, but there’s no reason it couldn’t be him communicating with someone to kill Melanie,” Jo said. “He’s pretty convincing though.”

Mark was still weeping at the table. No, not weeping. Violently, uncontrollably sobbing.

“Explains why the drop with the body took so long,” Hanson added. “CSU are going through the apartment, and the cart I found near the dumpster. There was a pretty big blood stain beneath the welcome mat. It could have come from the gash on her head.”

“Keep me posted,” Reece said, and Hanson and Jo both began to walk away. “Detective Martinez?” Reece asked, and Jo turned back towards her. “Is everything alright? You seem distracted.”

Jo gave a half hearted smile, the same she gave everyone asking how she was doing after Sean died. Oh, the world was just falling to pieces around her, and the one beam that she was standing on was beginning to decay beneath her feet. 

“Just some personal business,” she replied, “nothing to worry about.”

“Would it have anything to do with Doctor Morgan?” Reese asked. Jo looked up. “This case is right up his alley, but he’s barely made an appearance.”

“Henry… he might not be working with us for much longer,” Jo said, walking away before Reece could reply. 

\---

Lucas felt like his hand was going to fall off. Paperwork always made him feel like he was back at school, when there were three thousand word essays to be written in an hour by hand. He wondered if Henry even got wrist cramp. Probably not. His perfectly neat handwriting could probably remain perfectly neat if he was writing constantly for seven hours non stop, with absolutely no pain. Of course, the guy was ambidextrous, so if he did get sore he could just switch wrists. 

The phone ringing broke Lucas out of not at all dirty thoughts about his ambidextrous boss, which was helpful because Henry was probably psychic and had the ability to know when assistants were thinking completely inappropriate thoughts about his beautifully constructed hands. 

Lucas scrambled for the phone, but almost dropped it when he picked it up because of the aforementioned wrist cramp.

“Hello, M.E’s office?” Lucas switched the phone to his non-dominant hand. “Yeah, sure, give me one second.”

Lucas carried the phone into Henry’s office, where the guy had managed to return from lunch somehow looking even more like a kicked puppy. Man, if Henry ever had kids they would have the best puppy dog eye game. Lucas would not be able to refuse them anything.

“Phone call for you, Doc,” Lucas said, handing Henry the phone, before leaving so as to not betray that his thoughts had managed to cycle through the entire route of sexual to domestic in roughly thirty seconds.

The door closed gently behind Lucas. Henry picked up the phone, hoping that it wasn’t a grieving family member. He had difficulty handling that on a good day.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Henry.”

Ice trickled down Henry’s spine. It couldn’t be. Oh, please, _no_ , it couldn’t be. 

“Who is this?” Henry asked, gripping the arm of his chair. 

“You could say I’m a friend. You can call me Adam. Apparently, you’re a bit shaken up by my visit with Detective Martinez? Lovely woman, very loyal. I admire that.”

“What do you want?” He knew where Henry worked. He had probably known beforehand, after all he knew that Jo was his partner, but here they were, talking. The man probably hired to kill him had the gall to call himself Henry’s _friend_.

“You managed to get yourself a copy of every incriminating document available before you busted that shipment. Your father is demanding that you return everything you have, or at least destroy it. Why now, I’m not sure.” There was a chuckle. “Maybe he finally found you to be more disposable than himself. Don’t be upset, every father does it eventually.”

Henry tried to swallow past the black hole consuming his chest.

“What if I say no?” He asked, timidly. There was a sigh. 

“I personally find your father’s business to be… distasteful.” It was Henry’s turn to laugh. “Nevertheless, I have a job that I have been contracted to do. And I am very good at my job. You know… Abraham is a nice name. I can see why you and Abigail chose it. Such a pity what happened to him. But of course, you named him after your uncle. How touching. However, his fate… I can somewhat relate. And I must admit, even I am not quite so heartless as to make you lose both Abrahams. I want the files, not to drive you into catatonia.”

He knew about Abraham. Of course he did, anyone that knew him back in England knew about Abraham. Knew about what happened to Abraham. Hence why in America it was paramount that no one would know about Abraham.

“But Detective Martinez, and the nice man who answered the phone. They are much more… acceptable. And we musn’t forget those you left behind, Henry. Your sister is forbidden per your father’s instructions, but Nora… James… Valerie… They are also completely within my limits. And let us not forget darling Abigail-”

“Don’t you dare,” Henry spat. “Don’t you dare even _think_ about hurting her-!”

“Or…?” Adam asked, but Henry remained silent. “Just focus on getting the files, Henry.”

The dial tone echoed from the phone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The short life of Abraham Morgan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes writing angst is fun. This chapter was not fun.
> 
> Warnings: Major Character Death (sort of), child death, chronic illness

_2002_

“He looks like you.”

Henry wasn’t sure how Abigail could tell. To him, the bundle in her arms looked like every other baby he had seen, except far, far more beautiful. He had fallen asleep, having cried himself out in his first few hours in the world. Henry didn’t think he had ever seen anything more wonderful. 

“I don’t think Ian suits him…” Abigail said, rocking her son gently. “He has the Morgan face. A Morgan needs to have more of a classical name.”

They had decided on Ian for their son, after Abigail’s father. Abigail had suggested Anne for a girl, but Henry had emphatically declared that he didn’t want to burden his child with a name that in his mind had been intrinsically linked with tragedy. Sylvia had been similarly rejected. 

“Not Henry,” he said, and Abigail pouted. With her mussed hair, eyes brightened by painkillers, and cheeks reddened by exertion, she looked like a particularly exhausted cherub.

“But Henry is such a strong, regal name, given to one of the most adorable men I’ve ever met,” she said, giggling.

“I don’t understand the ‘name your children after yourself’ ordeal. They already have your genetics, giving them your name as well is somewhat narcissistic. Plus, the world has had too many Henry Morgans.”

Abigail laughed.

“He’s still getting Henry as a middle name. It’s traditional.” Abigail gently ran a fingertip over their son’s features, before smiling. “Abraham. You said it yourself; he’s one of the most important people in the world to you. To both of us.”

Henry gathered the baby in his arms, holding him tightly in his arms. He leaned down and placed a kiss on the tiny forehead, still so soft, with the beginning of hair. 

“Abraham Henry Morgan.” He turned to Abigail. “It’s perfect. But, it’s going to make Abe cry.”

Abigail grinned. “Grown men crying? It’s like catnip. Can’t get enough. Speaking of, I think you’re about to start again.”

Henry looked down at the bundle in his arms, tears indeed welling up in his eyes.

“Hello, Abraham.” He choked out, grinning down at his son. “I’m your dad.”

\---

_2004_

Henry held Abraham tightly to him. The yard was bustling with people, friends and family who had come to coo over the birthday boy. Two years old, and the boy had managed to fulfill Abigail’s predictions, with his dark eyes and curly dark hair, the details of Henry’s features on Abigail’s face. 

Two years old. It was more than just a celebration of Abraham’s age, that day. It was a milestone in a marathon. No one expected him to reach two years old. It was doubtful that he would reach three. 

It was the mantra of every parent. _I don’t care what happens as long as my child is healthy_. At this point, Henry wouldn’t even care if his son remained ill, as long as it was manageable, as long as it meant that his son wasn’t doomed from the start. Perhaps there was something ironic, that the son of a brilliant doctor and nurse was born dying. 

Another year, another year of pitying glances and mutterings and questions about how many more years it would be. And then there were the people that dared to hope, dared to suggest that maybe the doctors were wrong, that Abraham would be fine. It was people like that who made Henry resent his brilliance, his competency in the medical field. Made him resent the fact that Henry himself knew exactly what the doctors did, gave a similar life estimate, and that everyone knew Henry Morgan was never wrong.

Henry was beginning to hate birthdays. 

“How are you all doing?” Abe asked quietly. 

Henry gave him a tight smile. Abraham shifted in his sleep, curling tighter towards Henry’s body. Henry shifted his arms to better cradle his son in his new position.

“Exhausted. Abraham’s been sleeping less, difficulties breathing.” It was why Henry was letting the boy doze now. The two of them had been up all night waiting for Abraham to be comfortable enough to sleep. Abraham had a small tantrum when it was the early hours of the morning and he still could not sleep-- Henry had almost given into frustrated tears himself.

“What about you and Abby?” Abe asked.

Abigail and Henry had begun fighting more often. Stress and fear had infected them, causing them to not even be able to breathe without stepping on each other’s toes. He knew that it was the fault of neither of them, but he could still see the fractures in their relationship a mile away. 

“Barely spoken in the past few weeks. It’s probably for the best, giving each other some space, but…” Henry just wished that things could heal. He was a doctor, he was meant to be able to make things healthy again. 

Abe put a hand on his shoulder. The small movement the touch caused to Henry’s arm made Abraham wake up. He groaned, a high quiet sound that only a child could make. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes and yawned into Henry’s chest.

“Oh, hey kiddo!” Abe said with the fake exuberance he had mastered since Henry was a child. “How’s my favourite boy?” 

Henry handed his son to Abraham, the two beginning to talk. Well, Abe was talking while the child nodded drowsily. Henry leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes tightly to stop them from burning. It didn’t work, and the frustration within him built the longer he tried, so he opened them again. Beside the table, Abigail was looking at them, her eyes heavy. Nora rubbed her arm gently, taking another gulp of fruit juice.

\---

_2006_

Henry stacked the last of the dishes away, back aching from leaning over the kitchen sink. He had spent the last few days on his feet, though he never wanted to complain. Abigail had done that her entire career and still spent most of her spare time in heels, even if she was no longer carrying a baby on her hip. 

Currently, Abigail was curled up on the couch, deeply asleep with her arms draped over the offensive fabric (she had refused to indulge in the Morgan family fortune, and insisted that she and Henry do what every young couple did in their situation. They had bought the couch at a second hand store, spending a day testing out couches with missing foam or tricky springs, or ones that just wouldn’t let Abigail lay her head on Henry’s chest at the right angle. The couch that was the comfiest had been a bright orange thing, with a pattern that looked like it had been the result of the seventies throwing up a combination of every other decade’s bad taste. They had loved that couch so much they had posed for their wedding photos on it. Abigail hated it now).

Her chest lightly rose and fell with each breath. Blonde hair fell over her neck in a ponytail, what little makeup she had taken to wearing flaking off. Henry himself had let his curled hair run free that day, stubble apparent on his chin because he couldn’t be bothered to shave. Neither of them had seen the point in putting much effort into their appearance as of late. 

Careful not to startle her, Henry walked over to the couch and knelt beside his wife. He raised a hand and brushed it across her hair. Abigail responded with a soft moan, eyes fluttering open. 

“I was going to head up to bed,” he said quietly. “Would you like me to carry you?”

Abigail smiled, but did not reply. She reached out and laced their fingers together, clasping his hand in hers. 

“You used to love that. Twisted my ankle and you piggybacked me all around campus.” She sighed, reaching out her other hand to send through his hair. It was true, Henry had always enjoyed carrying Abigail. Always felt safer with her on his back or in his arms, as if she was keeping him grounded. Now, the thought of being off the ground terrified her, so he doubted she would let him carry her even if they had touched beyond the slightest embrace in the past several months.

“You go up to bed, I think I’ll stay a while,” Abigail said. Henry bent forward and kissed her forehead, their eyes closing involuntarily. He stood and began to leave, but her voice stopped him.

“Are we going to be alright?” She asked. He wanted them to be. Goodness knows he wanted them to be fine, to be happy and together. All three of them, a happy family. But it wasn’t going to be three much longer. And a part of him knew that they were just too broken to survive as just two.

“Of course,” Henry said, smiling. He found he was doing that a lot recently, without ever really meaning it. Or maybe he had smiled more often before, but it was such a familiar act that he never noticed it. It never used to hurt, he was sure of that.

Henry walked away, climbed up the stairs, crawled into bed. He could hear Abraham coughing down the hall, but it was only a light one and Henry didn’t want to risk disturbing him if it wasn’t serious. The boy needed all the rest he could get. Henry closed his eyes, and tried not to think.

He undressed, and tossed his expensive clothes carelessly into the washing basket. He changed into his pajamas and brushed his teeth mechanically, before climbing into the empty bed. He pulled the covers tightly around himself. The bed was always cold, even when they were both occupying it. He turned onto his side and lay as close to the edge as he could without falling off.

Most couples divorced after the death of a child anyway.

\---

Abraham was coughing. Loud, wet coughs that could pierce through the deepest sleep. Henry was already stumbling out of bed, a yawn wracking its way through his body. There had been an emergency at the hospital, the height of flu season having taken out most of the staff which led to them all drowning in work even before being combined with a car crash on the motorway. 

“It’s okay, Abby, I’ve got it,” Henry said as Abigail began to rise too. She nodded groggily and fell back into bed as well as most likely immediately back to sleep. She had been three quarters of a way through a double shift when the crash happened, running on half hour naps for three days. Henry doubted she had even woken up.

Henry shut the door as softly as possible before walking down the hall to Abraham’s room. Abraham was lying propped up in his bed. It had been a long time since he was able to sleep lying down. Henry turned a lamp on.

“Hey sweetie,” Henry said, standing over Abraham’s bed. 

“Hurts,” Abraham moaned in between coughs. Henry held up his son’s head and helped him to drink some medicine, before examining his chest. 

“Your lungs don’t sound so good, kid. I think we need to visit the hospital tomorrow,” Henry said, gently stroking Abraham’s forehead. The child whined again. He had grown to despise hospitals.

“Stay?” Abraham asked weakly, and Henry nodded.

“Of course,” he replied, getting onto the bed and pulling his son into his arms. Abraham was drenched in sweat, his body overheated with fever. Thankfully he soon fell asleep, the new medication he was on helping him to sleep at night. Henry began to fall asleep as well, listening to his son’s staggered breathing. 

\---

Henry woke up slowly. It was still early in the morning, but it had gotten cold. Even having Abraham beside him didn’t warm him up. The room was silent, the only exception Henry’s soft breath. Abraham’s wheezing was gone, and Henry hoped that was a good sign. He could not feel Abraham’s breath on his neck, even though he should, because--

Because Abraham wasn’t breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of the chapters that annoys me the most, because I had planned something a lot more detail and my brain decided that wasn't happening. The scene at the end was also meant to go longer, but I wrote this fic only a month after my Grandma died (from lung failure, funnily enough) and I couldn't do it.
> 
> Anyway.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucas makes a break in the case. Henry and Adam meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this chapter is a rollercoaster and a half

Hanson placed the phone back on the receiver. 

“The Portland police department has dug through their records, and they still can’t find anyone that would have both motive and means for killing Melanie. But, get this, I went through her phone records, and guess who she called the night she died?”

Hanso placed a photo on the whiteboard. It was of a man in his late fifties, with dark hair greying at the temples. He had a stern face, with familiar eyes. Jo’s gaze drifted down to the name at the bottom of the photograph. Richard Owen.

“Her father…” Jo breathed. She turned to Hanson. “When we called him, he said he hadn’t spoken to Melanie in years. He’s hiding something.”

Hanson screwed up his face.

“I dunno, Jo. Why would this guy set out to murder his daughter? Henry found no signs of abuse, there’s no record of any trouble between the two… you don’t just wake up one day and decide you’re going to murder your child.”

“Just because you wouldn’t doesn’t mean no one else would,” Jo replied. “There’s plenty of reasons parents kill their kids.” _Like them finding out that you were helping to run a human trafficking ring_. Jo suspected that this case may have pushed Henry over the edge, even without the appearance of the mysterious Adam. 

“Let’s find out why Melanie called her father suddenly after three years.”

\---

Henry clenched his hand, the ridges of the pen drive digging into his skin. He wondered if this could truly be all his father wanted, the only hard proof of what was going on. Hoping against hope, Henry wondered if his father had seen the error of his ways. Not enough to risk his own neck, but enough to get out.

Maybe he wanted a clean slate, like Henry had. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to flee the country and completely reinvent his identity to do so. 

Henry missed England. He loved New York, adored it with every fibre of his being, but a piece of his heart would always belong to his home. He missed his family, his friends. But he knew that he could never return. Everything that he missed was lost to him forever, shattered like glass by Abraham’s diagnosis. Just ten years ago, he and his friends had been promising youngsters on the brink of greatness. 

Now, he marvelled that they were still alive. 

Everyone had thought that Henry was the miracle. That something surely would have done him in by now, like the other Henry Morgans strewn throughout his family tree. Everyone had joked that the name was cursed. It wasn’t a joke anymore. But it was not a miracle that Henry had lived. It was just people turning up at the right time. James with his lungs, and Valerie with her needles. They were the miracles. 

Henry was just the luckiest tragedy in business.

His sister had told him that the best tragedies came in two forms. The first was the brilliant life cut short, no matter how much they fought against the reaper. The other was the person who lost everything dear to them, lost their will to live, but was forced to live on. Death as sorrow, death as mercy. When Henry asked her which one she thought their mother fell into, she had gone silent. 

“That’s the most powerful tragedy of all,” she had said, staring into nothingness as if it were a ghost, returning her gaze. “The one that manages to be both.” 

Abraham was the first tragedy. Everyone had relayed to him the same tired words, that only the good die young and that God would sometimes take people when he needed new angels. Henry stoutly refused to worship a God that was so selfish as to take a life unlived just so that he could have another angel in his army. 

Henry had believed that he was the second, staring at the hospital ceiling after his stomach had been pumped for the last of the sleeping pills. Longing for the coos of his son, the gentle touch of Abigail’s hand in his hair, but only knowing that Nora was waiting outside and he would never willingly see her again.

Working with Jo and the others had helped him to live with the ghosts swarming his life. Instead of the world collapsing beneath their weight, his past was beginning to coexist with his present. It had felt strange, the first day he looked up and realised that the world had ceased its endless stagnation and had instead trundled along like a steam train with ever growing speed. 

He had finally learned to breathe again, and his past had decided to rear its ugly head in the middle of the train tracks. Even if he managed to survive this with his newfound relationships vaguely intact, he could not stomach the thought of the overwhelming pity that would be in their eyes once they found out about Abraham. 

His father had been the one responsible for Henry being forced into this situation again. No matter how much hope he had, there was a voice in his head that would not quiet. The information in his hand may be all that stood between him and another bullet. Adam could well have been sent to retrieve the information and then dispose of the only witness. 

_Your father sold people into slavery. He deserves this._

Henry scoured through the drawer to find another pendrive. After a moment of hesitation, Henry coped the information relating to his father’s ‘business’ onto that drive as well. 

\---

The phone rang, to an empty shop and an empty flat above. An echoing phone, with no one there to answer the call. Shrill ringing sank into submission, as the caller switched to the answering machine.

_“Henry? It’s me… I-It’s Abigail. Your father is coming to America. I swear I haven’t told him anything but I think he knows. Please, darling, don’t trust him. I- I have to go. I’ll see you soon.”_

_\---_

“So you have no idea why Melanie would call her dad?” Jo asked. 

Mark shook his head. He had changed into a jail uniform and his clothes were taken for processing. They had been the same ones he was wearing when he disposed of Melanie’s body-- the sizable blood stain on his shirt had done a lot of work to prove he hadn’t been the one to kill her. Apparently the stain would have taken almost an hour of holding her body to form, and the blood had not flown the way it would if it had come from a living person. While it wasn’t unheard of for a murderer to cradle their kill, the explanation that he was forced to callously bury the woman he loved seemed more likely. How he had managed to walk around a liquor store in a coat that barely hid that blood stain, Jo didn’t know. Maybe New Yorkers really were as in their own heads as people claimed.

“She and Richard stopped talking when she went underground,” Mark explained. He was more lively today. “They thought it was better that way.”

Jo sighed. 

“And they had a decent relationship?”

“Yeah. Melanie and Richard adored each other to bits, never fought or anything. I’d expected a guy so close to his daughter to hate the guy she married, too. But he was like a father to me as well.”

“He’d never hurt her?”

Mark’s eyes widened, and he hunched forward.

“Are you kidding? You think _Richard_ of all people would have done this? He would never even dream of hurting her, those two would do anything for each other!”

The conversation was halted by frantic poundings on the door to the interrogation room. Jo rose out of her seat, before sliding out of the room. She pulled open the door, ready to yell at Henry for interrupting again. Lucas was waiting instead, practically leaping from foot to foot in his excitement. He was gripping a brown folder. Hanson was standing beside him, rolling his eyes. Jo’s heart sank, but she pushed it aside for the sake of the case.

“Detective Hanson had me do some digging into the case that Melanie had been working on. Turns out, there were several anomalies in the evidence-- the victim had some strange fibres on his clothing that couldn’t be accounted for, and look at this weird bruise on his shoulder. And get this! I was doing a re-examination of Melanie’s body because Henry says you never know what will come up that you won’t see immediately after death and yahtzee--” Lucas pulled out a photo of Melanie’s arm. “Exact same bruise.” 

“Why didn’t anyone look into this during the original case?” Jo asked, comparing the photos of the dead guy and Melanie.

“I mean, why would they? If they’ve got an eyewitness-- which Henry says is rubbish because eyewitness reports are scientifically dubious-- then what’s the point in looking further. Especially if she’s super convincing.”

“I had a look through the reports of that case,” Hanson continued, at a much slower pace than Lucas’s excited babbling. “Another witness could place Melanie at the scene, but not the perp, and get this: Melanie wasn’t alone that night. She was with her father.”

“See if you can get a court order to exhume the original victim’s body,” Jo said. “Lucas,” Lucas looked up, bouncing like a golden retriever or something for being called on. “I know he’s on leave but please try and call Henry. If anyone can figure out the connection, it’s him.”

\---

Adam was waiting on the docks, staring at the soft movement of the water. Henry moved quickly, his hands reaching up to wrap his scarf tighter as if it would protect his neck from the predator. Nerves wracked his body, and he wished that he had time to speak to Abe that morning. It was possible that today would be the last time they saw each other.

Adam did not turn towards Henry, and just waited until the younger man approached him. 

“Thank you for your cooperation, Henry,” Adam said, holding out his hand. Henry thrusted the pen drive into Adam’s waiting hand, before recoiling again. Adam gave him what could almost be considered a smile, before placing the pen drive in a pocket inside of his coat. Henry waited for a weapon.

“I have been hired to retrieve the pen drive, nothing more. My role in this capacity has been completed, and I see no reason to trouble you further. Goodbye, Henry.” And instead of a gunshot, Henry just watched as Adam simply walked away. 

The phone in his pocket rang, recently acquired after numerous complaints from Abe and Jo. He could not believe that he was free to continue on with his new life, having fully expected to be dead or at least carted back to England. His heart pounded in his chest, and he tried to swallow down his nausea. He could not believe that it was over.

After breaking from his confusion and fear, Henry finally answered his cell phone.

“Hello?” It was shorter than his usual greeting, but he was surprised that he could even break through the shock and receding panic enough to say anything.

“Henry! Sorry, I know you’re finally taking a few days off and that’s great but we kind of need you to come in. I found a lead! Well, it was a team effort, the detectives did a lot of detecting but I found the lead that found the lead! I was doing a second exam on the dead girl in the park, like you taught me--” Henry nearly choked on his relief at hearing Lucas’ rambling again. “-- and they want you to perform another autopsy on the vic from the case where she put that guy in prison ‘cause they might have been killed by the same guy. Who's the _man?_!” Lucas whooped.

“Alright, Lucas, I will be there immediately,” Henry said, before ending the phone call. 

Back to work. 

\---

“You were right!” Henry said, spinning around to face his coworkers. “The bruising is a side effect of a drug, a heavy sedative. The original victim had the drug in a much higher concentrate in his system than Melanie, enough to kill an elephant probably. Melanie’s dose was only barely over the threshold of fatal.”

He stood up and pointed at the toxicology report to prove his point. Jo wasn’t sure what had happened, but Henry looked… like Henry. The danger must have passed. How, she didn’t know.

“The original victim’s death was certainly intended with that large of a dose. I still would not be surprised if Melanie Owen’s death was an accident, meant to sedate rather than kill her. There’s no evidence that she was bound or restrained in any way, so it seems they relied on sedation to keep her under control.”

“Did you find out anything about the fibres?” Jo asked. 

Henry nodded.

“They’re from a very high quality suit. When we find the killer, I should get the name of their tailor.” Jo and Hanson looked at him with matched raised eyebrows. Lucas snorted. Henry continued. “Considering that the report said that the suspect had been wearing jeans and a shirt on the night of the murder, it is unlikely that the fibres came from him. Also, this drug is very expensive, and it is rather doubtful that the man convicted of the crime would have access to it.”

“So Melanie lied,” Jo said.

Henry nodded.

“That is the most likely explanation. Now you just have to find whom Melanie would perjure herself for.”

“I think I know,” Jo answered. “The reports said that Melanie was with her father that night. He owns a pharmaceutical company, so he would be wealthy enough to have the fancy suit and had both money for and access to the drug. And her fiance said that those two would do anything for each other…”

“I’ll see if we can get a search warrant,” Hanson said, before leaving the room. Lucas looked at Henry and Jo, before excusing himself as well.

“Are you okay?” Jo asked, and Henry smiled.

“I think so. I might even be able to stay with your department.” 

Jo’s heart leaped in her chest, a feeling she had not been familiar with since her husband’s death. Unrestrained delight. She let out a smile.

“That’s great. I didn’t want to have to put up with Lucas on my own.” She watched as Henry pushed his chair back from the desk and got to his feet.

“Well, I think after this case Hanson may have gained himself Lucas’s adoration. Hopefully he can restrain himself from killing the poor boy.”

Jo was attempting her own restraint, before giving into the urge. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her colleague. After a moment of hesitation, Jo found herself in a warm embrace, and discovered that Henry Morgan gave fantastic hugs. If they remained in the hold longer than was typical for friends, she could not give a damn.

\---

Henry was very fond of walking through New York city at night. The way the lights shone against the black sky gave the appearance of stars, stars of various colours that could blink in and out of existence. He had spent many nights allowing the city to whisk his imagination off to many places, and to wash over him in a sea of bustling calm. 

Of course, it was a very good thing that he enjoyed the city at night, and that his legs were invigorated by the movement of walking rather than exhausted. His constant bad experiences with transport and the brushes with death that resulted from it had made him wary of any mode of transportation that was not the car of someone he trusted or his own two feet.

Henry approached the antique’s store, lights flooding out of the windows from the apartment upstairs. His stomach growled, and he hoped that Abe had made one of his delicious meals. His phone had run out of battery earlier in the day, just after he had left Abe a message that he would be home later on than expected, but that he was safe. Though Henry had been somewhat convinced of the uses of technology, he still had limited understanding of how to take care of it. He would have to remind himself to charge it before it reached a mere 5%.

“Henry!”

Henry spun around. That voice held command over every bone in his body, had always done. It terrified him, but at the same time comforted him beyond anything else, beyond even Abe could manage. The ultimate authority, with the ultimate love. It filled Henry with a consuming ache.

“ _Dad_ ,” Henry croaked, his voice sounding like the whine of a child trapped beneath a bed after hearing the beating of his grandmother. Of a man who had lost his own child. Of a man, broken after his failed suicide attempt.

In front of him stood his father, older than Henry remembered, but not frail. He was still taller than Henry, but not by much, with similar features. The child in Henry wanted to run to his father’s arms, the arms that he had been isolated from for so many years. But the bullet scar in his shoulder twinged.

“I’m sorry for this, son,” Thomas Morgan said, before giving a slight nod. 

Arms burst from behind Henry, one tightening around his neck, another pushing a syringe deep into his neck. The world began to tilt and blur, his head spinning, before a sack was pushed over his head. The world went black, and Henry’s eyes drooped closed. Then, he fell limp in the arms of his captors. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Cliffhanger~ 
> 
> (That will hopefully be resolved quickly and I won't forget to post again)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melanie's killer is found, but Henry's problems are just beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a freaking rollercoaster
> 
> Please be warned that this chapter has an explicit depiction of a suicide attempt, a character being tortured by their father, and references to child death. If any of these concern you, please ask me about them either here in the comments or on my tumblr @ themidnightcircusshow

_2006_

Henry burst from the water, his lungs begging for air. Droplets ran down his face, mingling with the tears that were always present when he awoke. The bathtub had begun to overflow, water dripping onto the tiles toward the closed door. He was still in his clothes from the night before.

Lazily, he reached forward and pulled the plug. There was a gurgle, and the water began to spiral down the drain. He reached up and turned off the taps, shivering. He had only turned on the cold water, and though it was not as bad as when he woke in a river outside, it had still been cold enough to send a chill through his bones. 

Wet clothes clung to his skin as he curled in on himself in the bathtub, watching the water continue to disappear down the drain. He found it somewhat distasteful that it was only when he went no further than his own bathtub that he remembered to keep his clothes on. 

Disappointment once again accompanied his awakening. Disappointment that he did not wake in Abigail’s arms, or to Abraham shaking him awake so that they could have a nice breakfast before Abraham had to go to school. Disappointment that he was still being drawn to drowning himself in his sleep. Disappointment that he still was not dead. 

He could only get energy as of late in those moments when he propelled himself from the water, his unconscious mind focusing more on survival than his actual desires. When he woke up somewhere strange, he would be able to propel himself to land, only to inevitably collapse, stark naked, on the safest shore. When he was simply in his bathtub, his energy drained faster than the water down the drain. One day, he would not wake up at all, and drown himself in his sleep. He hoped that that day would be soon.

\---

Pills. He could not remember what they were meant for; to help with grief, to help with sleep, to stop his sleepwalking. But he knew that the bottle, just over halfway full, would be able to stop him living. He had never been good at taking pills, forgetting in his daily bustle to force a few bitter capsules down his throat. He poured himself a large glass of his favourite wine, hoping that it would be enough to help him force the pills down.

Henry had locked his door, not wanting any undesired visitors. His body finally had the energy to move without feeling as if it were weighted down by cement shackles that coated his bones. He doubted that if he did not do this now, he would never have the energy. Just wasting away until his mind was a broken husk, but he body still soldiered on like Abraham’s never could. 

He was the one that wanted to die. Why did he have to be so healthy? Why could Abraham not have had his strength, and Henry have had the ailment. It was a tragic thing, for a boy to grow up without his father. But Abraham could have survived. Henry could not survive the loss of his son. 

As his eyes began to close, Henry could hear Abraham’s voice in the distance.

\---

Henry was already unconscious when there was a rattle at the door, someone fumbling with their key before managing to unlock it. Nora announced her arrival, putting some groceries on the counter. It had become a habit of hers to help Henry as much as she could. God knew the man was no longer attempting to take care of himself, and Abigail was gone now. Tragic, yes, but the alternative would have been for the couple to drag each other into an endless cycle of misery until they destroyed themselves.

“Henry? Are you home?”

Nora knew that it was Henry’s day off, which he had grown accustomed to taking in recent months. As long as she had known him, Nora had never seen Henry be anything less than an utter workaholic, forcing himself to work unbearable hours until he collapsed. She could remember many a dinner at the Morgan household where Thomas would have to pry work books from his son’s fingertips in order to get him to hold conversation.

Greif changed many things.

She began to wonder if Henry was sleeping. It would not be strange: the man had gone from an insomniac to an insomniac with nightmares and sleepwalking tendencies. Unfortunately, that also held the risk of Henry being on one of his riverside walks. She turned the corner into the living room.

“Henry!”

Nora ran over to the couch. Henry was trembling, foam coming from his mouth. The grunts of pain proved that he was alive, but she was not sure for how much longer. She looked around, finding the empty wine glass and canister. 

“What the _hell_ did you do.”

She shook him awake, though it was less wakefulness and more akin to a stupor. The man leaned heavily on her, and she did her best to drag him to the bathroom, where she propped him up against the toilet.

Nora ran back to the kitchen, grabbing various ingredients and mixing them together in a cup before running back. 

“Drink this!” She ordered, tipping Henry’s head back and forcing the mixture down his throat. The mixture was almost gone before Henry began to retch violently, his body freezing each time vomit came up his throat.

Nora hurriedly rang for an ambulance, whilst coaxing Henry to get enough of the drugs out of his system before the ambulance arrived. She stroked his back, hating herself for not being wary at his chipper tone that morning. Henry’s good days were always his worst days.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay…” She soothed, the words pouring out of her mouth even though she knew they would do no good. Henry had not been okay since the moment Abraham was given his diagnosis.

The paramedics burst through the door just as Henry gained enough consciousness to give Nora a glare that reeked of utter hatred.

\---

_Present Day_

Henry was woken up by a splash of water thrown in his face. The room spun around him, blurring in and out of focus. Whatever drug they had injected him with seemed to still be in his system, and was giving him what felt like the hangover from hell. His stomach lurched, the food in his stomach desperately trying to escape his throat.

Sir Thomas Morgan stood over him, white decorating his hair in a way that served to make him look only more distinguished. Wrinkles lined his face, the signs of a life well lived that indicated a far more varied group of expressions than Henry had ever seen on his father’s face. It was only now that Henry noticed that his father was leaning on a cane. In spite of the situation, he could not help the twinge of worry in his gut. 

Around them were several other men, each as expressionless as a door. Henry dimly noted the man standing behind his father-- Adam, face hard and jaw clenched. A sharp look in his eyes gave Henry the vague impression that the other man was not there out of desire. He had been more than happy to let Henry walk away, after all. 

“I don’t…” Henry wheezed, his lungs feeling as if they had been filled with cement. “I don’t understand. I gave you what you wanted.”

Thomas smiled at his son. A kind smile, one Henry could remember receiving when he came home with a dazzling report. A kind smile tinged with sorrow, like in the times when his father visited him in the hospital. Thomas had never let anyone try to shame their family for Henry’s mental illness, and had even come to blows over a remark that Henry would go “sky sailing” like his mother. Henry had always been thankful for that.

But this smile had another element as well. One that reminded Henry of something that he did not wish to ever recall, of a tight snarl on a weathered face as Henry watched his grandmother be beaten. Thomas took a strong resemblance to his father when wearing an expression of malice, of loathing. 

_Those who grow up in abusive households or suffer abuse can often become abusers themselves._

Henry thought that even if that was true, which he highly doubted, there wasn’t anyone expected Thomas to do something like this. To wear an expression like that. An expression of love and hate and regret all at the same time.

“That’s right, Henry. You did very well. I’m proud of you.”

Henry’s exhausted heart sang, an instinctual reaction to his father’s praise. He had always craved it, despite it never being scarce in the Morgan household. Abigail had always teased him gently for it, the way that he would hang on to his father’s every word. Nora had taken a more concerned approach, worried that his desperation for his father’s love would cause him suffering.

As always, loathed as he was to admit it, Nora was right.

“But I need something else from you, Henry.” Thomas moved forward, until he and Henry’s legs were touching. Henry tried to move away, but even without the drugs in his system sapping his energy he would have been unable to move the chair he was sitting in. Thomas put his hand on Henry’s shoulder, like he was reassuring Henry over bullying at school. “I need to know who told you about the business.”

“What are you talking about?” Henry asked. His voice was slurring from the drug cocktail they had pumped into him.

Thomas struck Henry hard across the face. Henry’s ears rang with the force of it, and he could taste copper on his tongue as the skin of his lip split. Thomas grabbed Henry’s hair and pulled his head back so they were eye to eye.

At least Thomas had the decency to look desperate. 

“There’s a leak in my office. I should have known that you couldn’t have found those files on your own.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Henry croaked. He flinched, expecting his father to hit him again. He didn’t, merely tightening his grip.

“Don’t do this,” Thomas said. He sounded like he was almost begging. “Come on, Henry. Just tell me. Tell me and I can let you go!”

“No one told me anything.” Henry choked on the words.

“They have already taken down some of my subordinates!” Thomas looked frantic now. “It’s only a matter of time before they come after me! It will ruin _lives_ , Henry. Our entire family will be ruined. Just _tell_ me!”

“Go to hell,” Henry said quietly.

Thomas’ face hardened, and he pulled back. 

“I gave you a chance. God forgive me, but I gave you a chance.”

\---

The building manager shuffled awkwardly in the corner as the elevator doors opened to Richard Owen’s penthouse. Soft jazz music was leaking from a room inside the apartment, getting louder as they walked in. The penthouse was freshly cleaned, but with cleaning agents that made the room smell like a woodbarn rather than detergent. Nothing strong enough to destroy evidence. 

It seemed like their suspect was expecting visitors.

“Richard Owen? It’s the NYPD!” Jo called. 

“Come in,” said an old and weary voice from around the corner.

Jo and Hanson nodded to each other, each keeping a hand on their gun as they turned the corner into a living room overlooking the city. They found the source of the jazz music-- an actual vintage record player, gently scratching over the grooves.

Richard Owen was sitting in an old armchair, nursing a glass of scotch in his right hand. His eyes were rimmed with red, and his left hand was cradling a photograph of him and a younger Melanie in his lap. The setting sun tinted the room yellow, making the old man appear as if he was in the scene of an old film. 

“Mr Owen, we have a warrant to search your apartment,” Jo said, the man looking far more desolate than she had prepared herself for. It was almost uncomfortable how broken the man looked. 

“Do whatever you wish,” Richard said, before taking another sip of his drink. “It doesn’t matter. I killed my daughter. I didn't mean to, but I did. She saw me kill that man a few years ago, and to protect me she pinned it on someone else. At the time, I was angry at her for doing so, but over time my fear of prison grew. As did her conscience. She felt guilty for sentencing an innocent man, and she wanted us to turn ourselves in. I couldn’t do that, but she said that she was going to anyway.”

He stroked over Melanie’s smiling face in the photograph.

“I wanted to make it look like she was a drug addict, so that they wouldn’t trust her testimony. It was not meant to hurt her, just put her to sleep so she would be found by the cops. But I gave her too much and she fell and started convulsing--” he broke off with a sob. 

“I had Mark dispose of the body. Everyone says that they go after the boyfriend… he’s such a good boy and I tried to pin it on him. Always putting my sins onto others. I can’t do this anymore.”

Jo pulled out her handcuffs and slowly walked forward. Owen sat unmoving in his chair. She checked that Hanson had his gun trained on Owen before reaching for her handcuffs. Owen didn’t even seem to notice her clasping the cuffs around his wrists.

“Richard Owen, you are under arrest for the murders of Melanie Owen and Clive Barker. You have the right to remain silent…”

\---

Abe paced through the living room, wringing his hands together and glancing at the clock. Henry should have been home hours ago. The only message he had found was from Abigail, still flashing red-- Henry hadn’t seen it. After numerous kidnappings, Abe had made Henry promise to ring him if there was even the slightest delay.

Abe had tried to call Henry’s cell phone numerous times, but each had gone to his profoundly awkward voicemail. A call to the morgue had led to Henry’s assistant informing him that Henry had left precisely when he was meant to, and becoming more panicked as he realised what Abe’s phone call meant.

_“Henry probably just went for a walk or something, right? I mean, he can’t be in trouble can he, it’s Henry. What am I talking about, he’s always in trouble. And he’s been so off lately, but he was fine today. Great, even! Oh God.”_

_“Lucas, calm down.” Abe had enough horrifying scenarios racing through his mind to take on the kid’s own panicked musings. “I’ll find him. If anything happens, call me immediately, alright?”_

_“Yeah, sure Abe. Of course.”_

And then Abe returned to his pacing. He was certain that Henry’s antics were going to send him to an early grave, the stress finally making his heart give up and just fail on him. Or the kid was going to lead to Abe pulling out all of his prematurely grey hair. He always claimed that Henry gave him prematurely grey hair, no matter how many times Henry said that there was nothing premature about it.

The bell to the store jangled.

“Henry?” Abe yelled, bounding down the stairs at a pace that was very detrimental to his body and he would soon regret. He raced down the stairs, hoping against hope that the man would be there with some rubbish excuse, or maybe some terrific excuse like he had been mugged and they had taken his cellphone and all of his money so he couldn’t call.

The person that greeted him was certainly not Henry. She stood nervously in the shop, luggage standing around her similar to how Jo had been standing when he had burst into the shop to announce that he had found his mother. Her eyes were bloodshot, and for the first time he could remember her blonde waves were disheveled.

“Abigail…”

She smiled nervously.

“Hi, Abe… Henry… Is he here?”

If Henry had known that Abigail was here there would have been nothing in the world that could have kept him away. Something was wrong.

“He didn’t come back from work last night.”

Something was _definitely_ wrong. Abigail looked as if she was going to be sick, the blood rushing from her face and leaving her a pale mockery of herself. She looked terrified, which certainly was not helping Abe’s own worry and his steadily climbing blood pressure.

“Thomas is here,” she whimpered. “He’s in New York, I tried to get here in time to warn Henry but he must have gotten here before me.”

Abe had already gotten to the phone before Abigail had finished talking.

“Why is he here?!” Abe asked. “They’ve already got what they want!”

Abigail shook her head, tears streaming down her face.

“I don’t know, I don’t know…”

Abe began to dial. There was only one thing they could do. 

\---

“They found the drug used in the murders in Owen’s apartment, and there was Melanie’s blood on the carpet from when she hit her head. Murdering your own kid…” Hanson rubbed the bridge of his nose. Jo could see that he was desperate for his own children, Richard Owen’s remorse getting under both of their skins. 

Jo groaned and rubbed her eyes. She had not had a good night’s sleep since Adam Harper had woken her up in the early hours of the morning. The state of affairs had forced her into a constant state of exhaustion, and when combined with stress and a gruelling case she felt as if she could fall asleep at the drop of a hat. And continue to sleep for roughly four years.

She just wanted a _break_.

She was contemplating the beauty of sleeping in the sun. A soft pillow under her, warm enough not to need a blanket. Without a worry or care in the world. She had done it once when she was a child, having come down with the flu and not having the energy to walk to her bed. So instead she had curled up on the floor, wrapping herself in a patch of sunlight.

But unlike now, she was not interrupted by her phone ringing.

“Hello?”

“Jo! Is Henry with you?” Abe sounded worried.

“No, I haven’t seen him since yesterday. Is everything okay?” 

Hanson looked up at her.

“No one’s seen him, or heard from him. He knows to check in. Jo? His dad’s in town.”

The bottom of her stomach dropped away, and everything inside of her fell into the pit that it left behind. Her blood thundered in her ears, the world coming to a stand still. And then it restarted, too fast and too loud and too bright.

“I’m on my way.” Jo hung up the phone and grabbed her coat. “Henry’s missing.”

She and Hanson ran out the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I'm the worst father in this fic. No, _I'm_ the worst father in this fic. No, I'm the worst father in this fic...


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'know, when I was reading this fic again I felt bad because constantly I seemed to be hitting other people's squicks. And then I got to this chapter and realised I had hit my own. 
> 
> Also I hope people weren't wanting Henry to get saved quickly.
> 
> Warnings: Amputation, attempted murder, does this count as child abuse? What does being tortured by your father when you're an adult come under? Anyway a warning for that, too.

_2008_

His father’s office had not changed much in the time Henry had been gone. Everything was still wood or leather or brass, a rich sight and smell that was intrinsically associated with everything that was his father in his mind. He wondered what Abraham would have tied to Henry, so completely and utterly that something even remotely resembling it would remind him of his father’s arms.

A stethoscope, probably.

Henry gazed at the large black computer on his father’s desk, the generic screensaver showing a randomised photograph. This one was of a school of fish. His father had always been more accommodating of technology than Henry was. Henry had never quite been able to figure out how some of it functioned, and had given up on trying rather than frustrating himself beyond belief. 

There was a click as the door opened behind him, and Henry turned, expecting to greet his father. Instead there stood a younger man, of whom Henry had only a vague recollection. Henry gave the man a tentative smile, aware of the possibility that they had met numerous times while Henry was trapped in his haze of grief born madness. 

Nathaniel Hawkes returned the smile, a confident and charming grin that spread out across his round face. Yet the grin did not reach his eyes, which were bright with anger, or even hate. A predator, hunting the weaker members of the pack before attacking his strong enemy. 

Henry tensed, recalling an undercover detective whom he had treated years ago. A woman with a nigh manic gaze in her desperation to bring a drug lord to justice. He had been frightened by her refusal to remain in the hospital despite the bullet he had pulled from her lung. Several months later, and he had read of her murder in the newspaper. 

The way that Nathaniel walked, Henry knew that he was the same as the cop. That he would carve down any who got in his way, that his search for whatever justice he desired would outstrip any mortal need. Henry himself was familiar with the desperation, that burning need to cure his son. 

He hoped that in whatever Nathaniel sought, he would not feel the horrific defeat that Henry had. 

“It is good to see you on your feet again,” Nathaniel said, and Henry wondered what explanation his father had given for his illness. It was probably just a sanitised version of the truth. “How are you faring?”

The throes of high society were still more than willing to gossip, and Henry had grown used to the many euphemisms people used to cover up uncomfortable topics. The ‘tragic accident’ that befell his mother, or his son’s ‘terrible affliction’. Usually the vague platitudes did more to fuel the rumour mill than sate it, but there weren’t many alternatives. 

“One foot at a time,” Henry replied, attempting to shake off his discomfort. Nathaniel smiled tightly, moving into the office. _Predator_ , Henry’s mind repeated. _You’re the prey._ The click as the door shut echoed through the silence. 

“Everyone that I’ve spoken to says that you are a truly good man, Henry. So, I cannot understand why, if what they say is true, you would turn a blind eye to your father’s business. The only explanation I could find is that you truly don’t know.”

Henry felt as if he was suffocating, Nathaniel drawing closer to him. Every word the other man spoke seemed to draw away more of the air around them. If he continued speaking, Henry was certain that there would be no more air to breathe and he would die, choking. 

“You could help us,” Nathaniel said. “Help all the lives that your father has ruined.” He thrust a flash drive into Henry’s hand. “Take a look at those. And then help me bring it all to an end.”

Nathaniel straightened his back. “Of course, if everyone was wrong about you… I have all that, and more, and if I go more than two days without logging in, it all goes to Scotland Yard.” He turned to leave. “Your son may have passed, Henry, but you are still a father. Imagine if your son had been amongst those people.”

Then he was gone, leaving Henry with a flash drive in his palm that felt as if it weighed more than half the world. 

His father arrived shortly after, giving Henry a broad smile that helped hide the wrinkles that had appeared on his face since the death of his grandson. Henry returned the smile, hoping that his father didn’t notice how his lips quivered. 

Throughout lunch Henry kept slipping his hand into his jacket pocket, running his thumb across the ridges of the flash drive. Slipping the lid on and off, ensuring that it was still there. Feeling each brush of its weight against his thigh as if each cell of his body had become attuned solely to the presence of the flash drive and the secrets it supposedly held. 

“Your sister told me that you are changing specialties,” Henry’s father said, the soft clink as he placed his tea cup back on its saucer wrenching Henry back to reality. Reminding him of why he had been nervous about this visit. 

Henry turned his eyes away, nearing forty and yet still incapable of bearing that sight of his father’s disappointment. 

“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t… I can’t do that anymore.” He had tried, he had desperately tried to return to practicing medicine. At first it had seemed possible, as if he could retain one piece of what had formerly been his life. 

Until a young girl had come in, a sweet girl, a few years older than his son would have been. A girl who had begun to code. She had almost died while Henry stood beside her, frozen in place. James had been forced to take over, and Henry had left, trapped in a daze.

James had later found Henry curled in the corner of the hospital morgue, shaking with the aftershocks of a panic attack. It had been then that Henry knew that he could never be a practicing doctor again. 

He expected to be admonished by his father, for sacrificing the respectability of having an accomplished doctor in the family, even if Henry had been adamant about working in a hospital instead of in the lucrative realm of private practice. But instead, Thomas had grasped his hand.

“I want you to know that whatever decision you need to make in order to keep yourself happy, I will stand by you. That’s all I want right now.”

Henry felt as if he was going to choke on his emotions. It was the same feeling he had had, lying in his hospital bed as his father stroked a gentle hand through his hair as if he were a sick child again, rather than a man who had tried to end his own life. A feeling of desperation and relief, of knowing that he could never go back in spite of his despair in his desire to, and yet knowing that he was not alone. That although he had driven Abigail away, there was one piece of home that he had managed to keep.

The pen drive was heavy in his pocket. 

\---

In her gut, Jo knew. Knew that the woman in the shop was not some stranger, pacing back and forth and wringing her hands. The woman stood tall, back straight and chin up, even in her fear. Strong, blonde, and beautiful. Shorter than Molly, yet filled all the same boxes (except maybe with less proficiency with a riding crop). God, Henry had such a _type_. Or maybe Abigail was the type and every other woman was just an attempt to fill the hole. 

Abigail looked young, younger than Henry, in spite of the wisps of silver decorating her hair. Her eyes were old, even if her face was not lined. Eyes that glinted with the remnants of nights spent sobbing yourself to sleep, swabs of concealer attempting to hide the dark shadows of grief. Jo knew those eyes, she saw them in the mirror every morning. 

Hanson was interrogating Abe behind them, each new piece of information raising his eyebrow further into his eyeline, bringing his voice to new heights, and radically changing what he knew about their good doctor. Jo had been fortunate enough to have spent prolonged amounts of time around Henry, to be able to pick up pieces of the puzzle before getting the rest dumped on the table in front of her until she was scrambling to put it all together. Hanson was not lucky enough to get the information pieced together in segments, but instead had to suffer through it all unfolding onto him until he was buried beneath it. 

And yet Jo still had the feeling that the puzzle was not complete, that there was still so much about Henry Morgan that she did not know. That she may never know. After all, no matter how long or well you knew someone, there would always be aspects of their lives that would remain secret, buried in denial and secrecy and grief. It pained her to know that she knew so little about Henry, but then remembered-- he knew just as little about her.

Jo began to walk up to Abigail, curiosity drinking in the woman that had managed to utterly entrance the great Henry Morgan, the man who had managed to bewitch even her and yet had only once been on a date since Jo had met him, on her insistence no less. And even then, Henry had fled in spite of so obviously beginning to fall for Molly. So powerful was Abigail, that the smallest reminder of her pained Henry so that even her name made the heartache visible in his eyes. 

“Abigail?” Jo asked, and the woman jumped, skittish and caught up in her thoughts that even the slightest encounter would break her out of her fog. She reminded Jo of a frightened rabbit, aware that it was being hunted and certain that every sound was the final bullet, coming to take its life away. 

Abigail relaxed when she was Jo, giving her an apologetic smile. Abe had introduced Jo as a detective that worked with Henry, and Abigail had openly trusted her and Hanson from the start. Apparently, family aside, Henry had rather good instincts about who could be considered trustworthy. 

“Do you know where Henry’s father could have taken him?” Jo asked, in the soft voice she often reserved for the scared children or abused wives. Abigail just shook her head, sniffling and reaching up to wipe tears from her eyes. 

“Abe is the only connection Thomas has to New York, so I don’t know where he would go. There are some customers in America that work with Thomas’s company, but I don’t know where they are, or who they are, or--” Jo reached out and placed a hand on Abigail’s arm, recognising the building panic that would overwhelm and lead to hyperventilation. 

“Do you have any idea what they want? Any reason why Henry’s father would act _now_?”

“There’s an investigation. Some people have already been arrested, lower level people who were involved in the kidnappings and trade. Scotland Yard has been looking into the ring for years, and apparently they’ve finally got enough evidence to put some really p-powerful people away.” Another sniff. “Thomas’s business partner was arrested two months ago, and I think Thomas is scared that he’s going to be next.”

That was always the way. When desperate, the selfish do not give a damn about who gets burned down to keep themselves safe.

“Abigail, we’ll find him. I promise.” Jo mentally kicked herself. She knew that if there was one thing never to swear, it was that the police would find a missing person. Most of the time missing people just stayed gone. Of course, she had said that she would find Henry, not that she would find him _alive_. And who could blame her for wanting to give a woman who had already lost so much a tiny bit of comfort, even if it was a lie. 

Abigail seemed to have more common sense than to swallow what the plethora of crime shows (and now Jo) had told her. Rather than take the words as comfort she used them to snap the calm she had created. 

Abe pulled himself away from Hanson and moved to Abigail, gathering the sobbing woman into his arms. He cupped the back of her head and swayed them slightly. In return, she clung to him, her fists gripping the fabric of his shirt until Jo wondered if she was going to tear through it. 

Hanson took Jo to the side, lowering his voice so as to not disturb the pair. 

“There’s quite a few cameras on Henry’s route home, so I’ll get some help combing through them to see if they caught anything.”

Jo nodded, reminding herself to take deep breaths in an attempt to stave off the panic. 

“At least we can be pretty sure that Henry’s still alive, if he’s got something they want. The doc is hardly someone to give up information easily,” Hanson said. Jo bit her tongue to keep herself from reminding him that in a situation such as this, Henry’s stubbornness was probably a _very bad thing_.

_\---_

Henry let out a hacking cough, his lungs constricting beneath the pain of his bruised chest. Hot blood was rolling down the side of his face at a sludging pace, sticky and making the skin beneath feel as if it was trapped in mud. 

His vision was blurred, but he could see his father standing off to the side, having the decency to at least look remorseful. Adam stood above him, his face an emotionless stone mask that bore no sign of exertion after spending the past hour cautiously beating a man. 

“Son, don’t put yourself through any more unnecessary pain,” Thomas said. Henry, after a lifetime of adoration for his father, was now very much wanting to tell him where he could shove his ‘unnecessary pain’.

“Quite frankly,” Henry panted, “I’ve forgotten what the question was.”

If he was not mistaken, Henry could have sworn he saw the shadow of a smirk on Adam’s face. Thomas, on the other hand, looked rather displeased. His face twisted into an expression of scorn, baring his teeth as if he were a wild animal that had just been antagonised. It was not an expression that Henry was accustomed to from his father, but one that he had grown aware of from another part of society. By the murderers he had just helped put behind bars. 

“Henry,” Thomas sneered. He slammed his hands onto the armrests of Henry’s chair. They were rather unnecessary, what with Henry’s hands being tied behind his back, so he was glad that his father could utilise them in his attempt at intimidation. “For once in your life, look after your own interests. Would you rather die for a _stranger_?”

Why would you protect a stranger over saving _me_?

“He’s a good man, protecting people from getting hurt.” Henry’s head was swimming, and he wondered if an earlier punch had landed hard enough to cause damage. Still, he leaned forward, pointedly staring his father in the eye. “You are not a good man.”

The slap made his ears ring. Henry refused to close his eyes to the stinging in his cheek, to the sting of betrayal in his heart. A part of him wanted to turn away and wail like a child, yearning for the days when his father was the one person that Henry could trust never to hurt him, to gather him up in his arms and shelter him from the world’s horrors.

Henry could feel the rage boiling inside of his father’s eyes, and Henry thought that maybe he had pushed his father too far. Then came the next blow, and the next, a hail of fists beating down on him. Each hit echoed through the warehouse, thunder beneath the whining in Henry’s ears. 

The blows stopped. Thomas panted above his son, sweat rolling down his face and the normally immaculate appearance dishevelled. He struggled to regain his composure, waiting for his breaths to ease before he straightened his tie. 

“Someone give me a knife,” Thomas ordered. No one moved. “Now!” 

One of the men drew a knife from his belt, slowly, before handing it to Thomas. Adam’s lips had become a thin line, watching Thomas warily as he drew closer to his son. No one dared to speak as Thomas cut the ropes around Henry’s wrist, before cradling his left hand gently.

“Give me a name,” Thomas croaked, sliding the knife underneath Henry’s little finger. He pressed the blade in, and Henry attempted to withdraw his hand. His father just held it tighter, waiting until Henry’s eye was drawn to the beads of blood welling up against the metal. “Or I will make it so that you can never help someone again.”

Henry shook his head, his breath coming out in small whimpers that betrayed his fear. He wanted to scream, to beg, but when he opened his mouth all that came out was a small gasp of air. 

“Please…” he whispered. “Please don’t do this.”

Thomas snarled at his son, before slicing the knife through his son’s flesh. Henry screamed.

\---

_2008_

“Tell me it’s a lie!” 

It had to be a lie. A filthy lie, reaching down his throat and choking up, filling him with its stain. His father was a good man. A good, kind man, a loving father, a humanitarian and survivor. He was not a monster. There was no way that he could be a monster. When Henry was cowering beneath the bed his father had rescued him, how could he be the monster that drags people away and sells them into _slavery_? 

He was certain that this was a dream. A horrific nightmare, worse than the lifeless body of his son in his arms. His reality was crumbling beneath him, again, and this time he knew he could not recover. Henry had tested his strength and how far it could be pushed, and this far surpassed the threshold. 

Instead of rushing to a defence, placating Henry’s fears and assuring him that it was the wild imagination of a disgruntled employee, Thomas was silent. Each moment of it was suffocating, sending ice down Henry’s back. 

“I didn’t have a choice.”

Henry scoffed, tears stinging his eyes. His father stood, reaching out towards him.

“You have to understand, they threatened you. All of you!”

“And I’m sure the money was just incidental to your decision?”

Thomas’s face became hard, his eyes setting into cold stone. He straightened his back, staring his frantic son down. 

“The family fortune was gone. My father… he _squandered_ it to fuel his alcoholic rage, and the rest fell to medical bills. For your mother, for Abraham… for _you_. I gave you everything! I kept you safe even when you went berserk.”

The words stung as if they were a slap. A voice had murmured in his mind, while he lingered in the hospital, of how he was a mere burden to his father. The whispers of his own mind caused him enough doubt, but to hear his fears from his father’s lips caused the floor to vanish from beneath him. 

Thomas seemed taken aback by what he had said, by the pain on his son’s face. His eyes softened with regret, and he reached out to place a hand gently on Henry’s arm. Henry recoiled, his eyes frantic. It was stifling inside the room, as if all the air had been taken away. Henry turned from his father and ran, deaf to his father calling his name from behind him. 

\---

Wind whipped at Henry’s face, the bitter cold of the London night air making his skin numb. Fitting that his skin would be as numb as the rest of him. He was at least consistent in being devoid of feeling. 

His head rested on the brick wall of some unknown building, shadows of the alleyway keeping him from the bustling nightlife at the end of the street. Dirt stained the bottom of his trousers as he crouched, but he could not bring himself to care. 

He resisted the pull of the public phone, to pick up the receiver and dial Abigail’s number. To rest his head in her lap and weep, to weep his betrayal and confusion as his last piece of the world crumbled into ash. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t force her into this turmoil he had been placed in, couldn’t disturb the scrap of peace that she had found.

He could never tell her what had been paying to keep their son alive. Not when he could not discern how to feel or think. How strong his disgust was, that his dear son had been almost tainted in the association. But if he had known, would he have done it anyway? Afterall, he would have done anything for his boy. Perhaps his father thought the same. 

Henry rubbed his face with his hands, spreading the tears over his skin. He was horrified at what his father had done, but he couldn’t… He couldn’t be the one to ruin his father’s life. Not without giving him a chance to rectify his mistakes first.

He would go to him, plead with him to make the right decision. To turn everyone in. His father was only a minor player in a grander scheme, surely his cooperation would be considered favourably. His father would have to see reason. Would he not leap at the chance to atone?

“Henry Morgan?” 

He looked up. There was a man in the alleyway, his face concealed by the shadows. Henry was unsure if he should deny it, shame blossoming in his chest at the thought of being recognised in such a state. But for the sake of politeness, he nodded.

The sound of the gunshot was dim to his ears. Instead, a fire roared in his mind, pain shooting from his chest as the bullet lodged itself inside him. Someone screamed. It was not him. He could not hear his shooter’s footsteps as he walked away, too busy choking on his own blood.

Blood leaked from his chest, intermingling with the grime of the alleyway. Darkness began to cloak his eyes, kissing him with eternal sleep. His eyes began to droop, his breath turning to ragged pants. He wondered if, like when he had returned home from work, Abraham would be there to welcome him. 

With shaking hands, he reached into his coat pocket. He fumbled around, unable to focus, but was soon able to pull out his phone. It was a cruel thing to do, but he just wanted to hear her one more time. Just one last time. 

His fingers were slippery with his own blood, so it took him several attempts to pry the phone open. The contact list blurred and he grunted, closing his eyes shut so that his vision would return. It took great effort for him to open them again, fewer spots in the world around him once he did.

She was the second contact on his list. Right behind his Uncle Abe, who he never did call enough in spite of loving him dearly. Another loved one whom Henry had failed. He managed to retain strength in his arms until he made the call, after which his arms dropped and the phone dropped with them.

Each droning beep of the dial tone drilled itself into Henry’s ears, causing his brain to ache. He couldn’t think anymore, his head light as if his brain had removed itself from his skull and had begun dancing above him. A cough, as if he had drunk something that had gone down the wrong way. There was something hot on his chin. And then came Abigail’s voice.

_“It’s alright, darling. Go to sleep. I will take care of Abraham through the night.”_

He loved her. He loved her _so much_. He never told her enough. Could tell her every minute but it would still not be enough, it would always pale in comparison to his feelings. He loved the both of them so very, very much. 

_“I love you too, Henry. Now get some rest. You deserve it.”_

He closed his eyes.

“-ello? Henry? Henry, is that you? Are you alright? Henry, answer me please. Hello? Where are you? I’ll come and pick you up. Henry?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's better than whump? Doing flashbacks so you can have whump in two timelines.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Once more, with formatting)
> 
> No new warnings, but a whole lot of old ones. Gore, vague references to suicide, child abuse, etc etc. 
> 
> Rescue time, baby!

“A street camera picked up footage of Henry getting pulled into a black SUV, New York plates. Some others got a shot of it heading out of town.” Hason handed Jo a file, opened to a map of New York. Some sectors, places that were deserted enough to hold someone hostage, were circled in red. Even narrowed down, there were still at least eight different places where Henry could be.

“Someone pull up all the info we have on the possible holding places in that direction,” Lieutenant Reece ordered. “See if we can’t narrow it down.”

“We’ve got a couple of abandoned warehouses only a few miles from where cameras last picked them up,” Hanson said. “One is still owned but shut down operations four years ago, the other is a foreclosure. Arrest records indicate they’ve seen some squatting and arson.”

“Cross that out.” Lieutenant Reece paced in front of the board. “They won’t be anywhere that the public can get easy access.”

“Got another foreclosure-- it’s a condemned building,” an officer said from across the room.

“They wouldn’t risk it. Keep going, people!”

Jo scanned through the information of a possible location about forty minutes from where Henry was picked up. It seemed unlikely-- Henry would have been almost impossible to be kept subdued for that long-- but she had a hunch. The building was as close to the middle of nowhere as you could get in Manhattan, and while in working condition it was unoccupied by its owners-- a shipping company. Why would a shipping company have an abandoned warehouse so far from the docks?

A quick look into the shipping company revealed it to be a shell corporation. Jo couldn’t find anything more without deep research. She sent the info off to one of the department’s tech geniuses for further analysis. Jo pulled up the footage from security cameras around the building and began to scan all the hours since Henry went missing.

“Got a possible, Lieu-- _damn_ , no one’s been in and out all day, except for a raccoon.” Hanson angrily crossed the location of the map.

“Come on, come on,” Jo muttered under her breath. A van pulled up on the footage, parked perfectly so it would hide everyone getting in and out of the van as well as the entrance to the warehouse. Jo swore. Then a figure walked in front of the van, before turning to look directly at the camera. Jo froze the picture, and grinned.

“Found him!” She yelled. The entire room burst into action, Lieutenant Reece shouting orders.

Jo grabbed her gun, stopping momentarily to thank the image of Adam Harper, as stone faced as ever, before readying herself for what she prayed would be a rescue.

\----

_1985_

Henry knew he was supposed to be in bed, but he couldn’t sleep. Every time he tried he would think of being alone under the bed, waiting for his grandfather to come and take him away, like he did to Grandma. She would call Henry sometimes, but Henry wasn’t allowed to visit her anymore. His mum never called. He was starting to understand why, now.

The light in his dad’s office was on, even though it was after bedtime. His dad didn’t sleep much after his mum went away. He slept less after Grandma went to America. Maybe he would sleep better if Henry read him a bedtime story. Stories always helped Henry get to sleep.

Henry pushed the door open. His dad was hunched over at his desk, reading over mountains of paper like Henry’s teacher at school sometimes did. Henry walked up to his dad’s seat. He grabbed the arms of his dad’s chair and tried to lift himself up, but there was nowhere to put his feet and the armrest of the chair was too high for him to climb.

“Henry? What are you doing here?” His dad asked, putting his hands under Henry’s armpits and lifting him onto the seat. Henry shuffled around until he was comfortably curled in his father’s lap, resting his head against his dad’s chest. His dad moved his arm so he was cradling Henry’s back. “Couldn’t sleep, huh?”

Henry yawned.

“Don’t want Grandpa to get me,” Henry replied.

His dad leaned forward and rested his chin on Henry’s head. Henry snuggled closer, feeling warm and safe in his dad’s arms. It was much nicer than hiding under the blankets.

“I know, kid,” his dad said. “I used to be scared of Grandpa too.”

“Really?” Henry asked. 

“Some dads don’t love their sons, not the way I love you. So they hurt them.” His dad rubbed a hand over Henry’s shoulder. It was so large it covered at least half his shoulder. Ever since what happened to his grandmother, Henry couldn’t help but notice how big adults were and how easily they could hurt him. He was glad his dad wasn’t mean like his grandfather was.

“Grandpa hurt you?” Henry asked, looking up at his father.

His father nodded.

“The way he hurt Grandma?” 

“Yeah.” His father kissed the top of Henry’s head. “But I will never hurt you. Do you understand? Your Daddy loves you and he will never, ever hurt you.”

\---

It was a different ache than when he was shot. Lying in the alleyway, he had not been able to escape the certain _wrongness_ of the bullet lodged inside of him. As if something had buried itself under his skin, and his organs could feel themselves being pushed out of the way by this intruder. 

Now, it was the opposite problem. Something had not invaded, but had been removed. He could feel the air where he could not feel it before, somewhere through the pain. Each inch of his pinky felt as if it was still there, attached to his hand as it should be. Yet at the same time he could feel its absence, the space where there should be none. Schrodinger's pinky. It was a terrible joke, and a terrible situation, and he laughed anyway.

Each breath he struggled into his lungs was a labour, to breathe in, to keep, to release. Exhaustion pounded in his bones, weighing him down so much that even if they untied his bonds he did not think that he could escape from his chair. 

Not that Thomas was likely to release him anytime soon. 

His father had rage etched into his face. Blood was dripping from the knife in his hand, sticking to his grey suit. Sweat had stuck his curls to his forehead. His lips curled into a snarl, baring his teeth. He looked like a feral animal. He looked like a monster. Thomas looked like his father. 

The men behind him did not seem to know what to do. Some looked horrified that a father could mutilate his own son. Some eyed the wound with pale faces, obviously not expecting the torture to go far enough to draw proper blood. A few looked mildly surprised. One or two appeared as if they may have even enjoyed it.

Adam’s expression retained the unreadable blank mask it had held throughout the proceedings.

Thomas grabbed a bottle of water and gulped it down, as if he were a man dying of thirst, before forcing the bottle into Henry’s mouth and making him drink too. The water should have been beautiful-- Henry had not realised how dry his throat had become from the screaming. But Thomas forced him to drink too much at once, so it burned as it trailed down his throat. The bottle was removed and Henry felt his chest spasm as he coughed back up the water that he had begun to choke on.

Thomas watched him with disgust, wiping his brow before leaning down again.

“His _name_ , Henry.”

The knife was digging into his skin again. It was an easy angle, with the pinky now out of the way. Henry did not want the pain to come again, he ached enough already. His father had hit him one too many times across the face and now his head was spinning. He barely even knew the man he was protecting, he could call Jo and have him sent into protection before his father could get there--

But he couldn’t remember the name. He could barely remember any names in his current state, let alone the name of a man whom he had only briefly met almost eight years ago. There was no possible way for Henry to give the man up, he realised as hysteria bubbled up in his chest. He was the perfect accomplice, forgetting any information he could have compromised in his delirium. 

“I don’t remember. I don’t, I don’t remember. Dad, please don’t. Please believe me, I don’t remember, Dad please don’t-”

The knife was pressing deeper into his finger, and had begun to slice through the skin. A whine caught itself in his throat. Henry closed his eyes, bracing himself as the pain began to bloom again. Gritting his teeth, Henry tried to prepare himself for the sharp agony. Surely his father would soon hit bone. 

There was a gunshot. Blood spattered over Henry, clinging to his face as he heard a body slump to the ground. Something was approaching; it sounded like sirens. Cars sliding through the mud. He opened his eyes. 

It was chaos. Everyone was trying to run away, to escape from the police. British citizens though most of them may be, they were still committing a crime on American soil. No matter which country, being found with a kidnapped man missing some appendages by the police was not something to be taken lightly.

Everyone except Adam, who had retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket and was now pressing it against Henry’s hand. Adam, who was responsible for the body at Henry’s side. The body of his father. Adam, who had just _shot Henry’s father._

“Henry. Henry!” Adam had a hand on his cheek, turning his head away from the _body of his father_ and towards him instead. “Look at me. I need you to keep breathing, stay calm. If you panic it will just make you lose blood faster.”

But he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think, he most certainly couldn’t stay calm. His blood was soaking through the handkerchief and he could hear each drip, each _splosh_ as it fell into the pool his father’s blood was forming. His head waved with dizziness, body slumping, and he could taste the bile on the back of his tongue. His father did not move.

“NYPD! Put down your weapons!”

Something began to constrict his hand. Adam must have been putting pressure on the wound. Radial and ulnar arteries in his little hand severed. Ring finger partially damaged, too early to tell if it would need amputating or reattachment would still be possible. His father was dead. Bleeding to death was not a concern. Possible risk of mobility loss. He was going to be sick. 

The pressure on his hand released. He looked up. Detective Hanson was putting Adam in handcuffs. Adam was expressionless, stoic even though just moments previously he had been comforting Henry. Maybe he was a god, above such mortal whims as emotions. Maybe Henry had lost more blood than he thought. 

“Henry! We’re going to get you to a hospital soon, alright? I need you to stay awake for me.” It was Jo. Jo was here. Jo was going to kill him for getting himself injured again. Even if she did have to step over his father’s body to do it.

“You need to keep pressure on the wound,” Adam said, and Detective Hanson began to take him away. The pressure on Henry’s hand returned. He did not want to look. In his mind he saw the severed fingers that had come to him in A and E, saws and kitchen knives and even a few chainsaws. But never torture.

“If only we had a way to set my hand on fire,” Henry said. His voice sounded remarkably slurred. Even when he tried to drown himself in alcohol he had more control over his speech than now. Blood loss, combined with shock. A depletion of adrenaline. 

“I’ve been wanting to get revenge for that for years,” Jo replied, before wrapping her free arm around him. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

There was the tugging of a knife against the ropes around his wrists, which soon released and allowed his hands to drop. Henry raised his uninjured hand and turned Jo’s grip into a proper embrace, resting his head on her shoulder. His face was covered in sweat and blood. He hoped it wouldn’t stain her jacket. 

Henry tried to turn and look at his father, but Jo was blocking the body. He was certain it was on purpose, and for the moment he was grateful. His stomach churned at the thought of seeing his father’s lifeless body. He imagined it still wore the hateful expression he had when he drove the knife through Henry’s finger.

“How did you find me?” Henry asked, sounding like he was about to fall asleep.

“Harper,” Jo replied. “He let the security cameras get a clear shot of his face. It confirmed a hunch. Also means that he’s the guy who we’ve got the most evidence against.”

“He saved my life,” Henry slurred.

“Hey, I need you to stay awake for me, okay? Just a little bit longer. Henry? Henry!”

It was no use. Henry heard the dripping sound echo through his mind, before slipping into unconsciousness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, don't you all feel bad for hating on Adam in the comments :p 
> 
> Also I chose the last name Harper because it rhymes with Farber, his alias. I am not creative.
> 
> Only one more to go!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, folks!

Abigail was tapping her foot on the waiting room floor. It reminded Jo of how Henry had reacted when Molly was attacked. A similar nervous energy that flowed when someone dear to you was in danger. Jo wondered if Abigail and Henry had become similar after being together so long. Old married couples began to look alike, after all. Or perhaps they had always been similar, and that was what drew them to each other. Perhaps it was also what helped push them apart. 

“He’ll be alright. You know Henry, stubborn as an ox when he wants to be.” Jo reached over and clasped Abigail’s hand. Her foot did not stop tapping, but her fingers did not wriggle as much when tightly held. Jo began to stroke her thumb over Abigail’s hand. Briefly she wondered how a nurse’s hand could be so soft. 

“I’m just… this is the third time, you know? And he isn’t going to die, but I can’t help but wonder if he is. He loved Thomas _so_ much and he-” She began to cry. “We all betrayed him.”

“Hey, no no no.” Jo wrapped her arm around the weeping woman and brought her closer. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Blame the sick S.O.B who cut off his son’s fingers. Is self blaming a British thing or is it just you and Henry?” 

“Just Henry and I, thankfully. Must… must run in the family.” Abigail giggled, wiping at her eyes with her sleeve. Her eyes were red with dark circles beneath them. The poor woman looked like she hadn’t slept in years. Jo probably was not faring much better.

They drifted into silence, Abigail occasionally hiccuping through her tears. The hospital staff scurried by, while other families waited to hear if their loved ones were going to make a full recovery or if they had a body to bury. Abe had gone to get them something to eat from the hospital canteen. Everyone else was tied up at the precinct with the rather large amount of bookings to make and evidence to process.

“Detective… do you like Henry?” Abigail asked. Her voice shook less, but it was not steady. She was probably looking for a distraction.

“Sure. I mean, sometimes I want to strangle him, and other times I want to beat him with a stick, but… yeah. He’s one of my closest friends. Annoying as he can be.”

“What about… I mean… I saw how you looked at him. I used to look at him like that.”

“Like--? Oh! It’s… um, it’s…” Jo had an admittedly weird life. More normal than some, she was now pleased to say, but still sometimes strange. But she had never been asked by someone’s ex if she had romantic feelings for said someone. Which she did not. Not at all. Maybe a little. She groaned. “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated?”

“Look, he’s… _gorgeous_. And sweet, and funny, and never tell him I said this but he’s a little bit cool. In a keep torture devices in his weird dungeon kind of way. But I could never… I have my own baggage. Until I can heal from it properly, I don’t think I could date someone with more of it. And Henry is just… he’s a really good friend, you know?”

“Yeah… he’s the best friend I’ve ever had. I understand. But if the two of you ever… if you’re ever at the point… well, just know that you will not regret it. Even if you do have to let him go.”

Abigail fumbled with her phone case, and Jo could see an old photo sticking out from a card slot. The photograph was of Henry and Abigail, curled up on the world’s most hideous couch while a small boy sprawled across their laps, fast asleep. 

“Mrs Morgan?” A doctor asked as they entered the waiting room.

Abigail sprung to her feet, and Jo stood quietly but with just as much nervous energy behind her. The doctor pulled off her surgical cap and smiled.

“He’s making a good recovery,” the doctor said. 

Abigail sagged with relief. 

“What about his hand?” Jo asked.

The doctor frowned.

“We have done all we can. We won’t be able to gauge the full extent of the damage until he wakes up.”

“But he’s alright?” Abigail asked.

“Yes,” the doctor smiled at her. “And will stay that way.”

Abigail flung her arms around Jo, laughing in relief. Jo held her tightly, thankful to have Henry safe at last.

\---

Henry sat down in front of the glass. The scenery around him made him feel as if he were in a movie. A jaded detective confronting their nemesis, the serial killer who was deranged yet classy. They would have a curt conversation over the phones while staring directly into each other's eyes. Some flippant remarks about prison, followed by some jabs, maybe a “we’re just the same” speech ended with a sarcastic remark and a hung up phone.

But Henry was not here to see his nemesis. Many people assumed they were enemies. Adam had murdered Henry’s father, after all. It broke Henry’s heart to see his father gone. He had never wanted to see his father die, could not bear to lose another member of his family. But always there would be the knowledge that Adam saved Henry’s life. That Adam had probably saved a number of lives. Henry could not hate a man who had been trying to do the right thing.

Adam was calm, for a man who went to his first hearing in a few days. Maybe nothing could break the man’s cold mask and harsh gaze. Henry conjured up the image of a child, playing as a child did but with the hard lips of the man that sat before him. The image turned softer, with curly hair and bright eyes until it was Abraham, laughing and playing no matter what the sickness did to him. Henry threw the image away. 

“I did not expect you,” Adam said, and Henry gave him a sad smile.

“I wanted to see you. I’m testifying, you know. I want them to know you were protecting me.”

Adam turned his gaze to Henry’s hand. It was wrapped in bandages and had been a persistent ache in spite of the painkillers Henry was still expected to be on. Morbid curiosity had taken Henry over once in the hospital and he had unraveled the bandages. He had stared at the red lines, poked gingerly at the sutures. At the empty space where his little finger had been.

“How is it?” Adam asked.

“They couldn’t reattach the pinky. The other two could be saved, but there is a significant loss of mobility. Even with physical therapy, I will never be able to perform surgery again.” It pained him to know that part of his life was now permanently closed. Some days he had dreamed about being able to step into an operating room again without the rising panic that swam his mind. That one day he could regain at least one part of the life he lost. But that life was now gone forever.

“I’m sure the cadavers won’t mind.” And there, if Henry looked hard enough, was a slight smile on Adam’s face. Oddly enough it did not make him look younger. It made prominent the wrinkles in the man’s face, the ghost of wounds of both a physical and psychological nature. Above all, it was a smile from a man who did not smile much. It made Henry smile too.

“A sabbatical, and then the corpses will be waiting for me eagerly as ever.” Then, because Henry was curious-- “Jo said that you had been with Scotland Yard. Why the change?”

“Too many people died because of the regulations imposed on us. I had to leave a boy with his monster of a father simply because we did not have the evidence to get him out. Too scared to testify against his father, too much love for him. And my department was full of Eton alumni taking a cut from everyone willing to hand something over.”

“So you ended up blackmailing people for clients that sell people by the crate load?”

“It was not my… finest moment. If it brings your mind to rest, know that I wasn’t going to give your father what he wanted. Scotland Yard may be a cesspool, but there are a few good men. From there, I do not know what we would have done.”

All life seemed to be was uncertainty. How to solve your big case. How to cope with your father kidnapping and torturing you. How to save a dying marriage. How to go on after the loss of your son. Henry had been so unable to fathom an answer that he had tried to take his own life instead. The grief and depression had been too strong, and he had felt as if all the possible paths open to him had been pulled away like broken floorboards. But now… he just had to continue on.

“Well, I’m sure that you will make up your mind when you come to it.”

“... I am certain we will. And then, perhaps, I will return to New York. The weather is certainly preferable.” 

Henry laughed. It was a bright summer’s day outside, sunlight filtering through the windows. It was meant to be a warm night. Perhaps he should stop by the nearest pool and go for a swim. 

“Thank you, Adam.”

There was another smile. A little bit brighter this time, his eyes even beginning to light up.

“You’re welcome.”

\---

“You don’t have to go, you know.” Abe said. 

Abigail smiled, handbag clutched tightly in her arms. The airport was bustling with people, all eagerly waiting for their next destination and stretching their legs before the inevitable hours of being sat in a cramped chair. 

“There is only so much time off you can get in a hospital, I’m afraid,” she replied. Her eyes turned to Henry, before quickly averting away. It had been a strange experience to wake up with Abigail hovering over his hospital bed. In the haze of pain medication Henry had wondered if it had all been a horrifically bad dream. Or if she was about to tell him that he had been in a coma for years. It should have been a tearful reunion, but after so many years avoiding their feelings, neither knew what to say. 

Jo and Abe glanced at each other, before leaving the former couple alone. There were a few moments of silence, before Abigail directed Henry to a pair of seats. She grasped his hand, the one that had not been maimed. 

“He’s right, you know.” Henry glanced down at their clasped hands. “You could stay here. We could… we could try to fix things.”

“Oh Henry…” He could see the tears forming in her eyes. A shimmering film over the bright blue. Abraham had had her eyes. “We can’t. _I_ can’t. I think about him every day, and it feels like I’m choking and I just… it hurts too much.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. The tears were falling from his own eyes now as well, and he could feel his head begin to hurt just as much as his heart. “I’m sorry that we could never be a normal family.”

Abigail leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him in a crushing embrace. It was the first time they had touched since Abraham had died, possibly even longer. He felt as if he was hanging onto a lifeline in a vast ocean, clinging to the one thing that could keep him from drowning. Perhaps that was their problem. They could not save each other. Trying had just brought them both down.

“My love, we _were_. I would not have changed a single moment.”

And then she was gone. 

\---

Henry half expected his office to have been completely changed in his absence. It wasn’t. Things were mostly as he left them, though they had been inevitably shifted slightly by the cleaners. He sat down in his chair and let himself bask in the familiarity of being back where he belonged.

Abe, while doting and indulgent throughout the whole ordeal, had all but thrown Henry out of the house once he mentioned wanting to go back to work. Henry was a difficult patient under the best of circumstances, and the combination of physical therapy, returning to psychiatric therapy, and testifying in Adam’s trial had made him hell to live with. But Abe had still managed to send him off with a smile and a hug, and made him promise to come home if the day was difficult.

Henry had planned to fill the day with paperwork, but already he could hear the usual chaos of Lucas bringing in a body. The voices of Jo and Detective Hanson were not far behind him, both trying incessantly to get Lucas to return to his original topic. Henry smiled to himself, and stood up.

“I mean, most movies use fake blood, which must make the most delicious smelling crime scenes _ever_ \-- Henry!” Lucas dropped the folder he was holding. Henry made a move to pick it up for him, but was almost bowled over by Lucas giving him the most tackle-like hug he could imagine.

“Yes, hello, Lucas,” Henry groaned out. He felt like his ribs were being crushed by Lucas’ arms, which was surprising because Lucas was at best quite spindly. 

“Gosh I missed you,” Lucas said, hugging Henry even tighter before Hanson coughed behind them. Lucas let Henry go, and Henry tried not to bend over to regain his breath.

“Good to see you back, Doc,” Hanson said, before nudging his head sharply towards the door. Lucas quickly got the hint and trailed behind Hanson, shooting Henry another grin before he and Hanson left to stand outside for an appropriate amount of time.

Henry and Jo stood awkwardly in front of each other. It hadn’t been long since they had seen each other, but the return to a professional setting made them realise just how much things had changed. 

“Jo,” Henry began, “I just wanted to thank you for saving my life. Again.”

“I’ve already said you don’t need to.” Jo rolled her eyes, and smiled at him. “But you’re welcome.” She pulled Henry into an embrace, one that was far gentler than Lucas’ crushing hug. “I’m just so glad you’re back.”

They stood like that for some time, long enough for Lucas and Detective Hanson to return. Henry saw them standing awkwardly in front of the glass doors from over Jo’s shoulder, clearly debating whether they should go in or not. He chuckled and pulled back from Jo. That seemed to be the clue they were waiting for because they burst in. Lucas all but ran up to Henry’s side and glued himself there.

“So what do we have today, Lucas?” Henry asked, indicating towards the dead body.

Lucas began his spiel about the man before them with even more gusto than usual. Hanson and Jo’s patience with him seemed to have grown, but Hanson cleared his throat when Lucas decided to get too long winded. Hanson and Jo left when it was time to begin the autopsy (though they later returned with a box of cupcakes from a bakery uptown, which the four of them had divided with Hanson and Lucas inevitably debating over the lion’s share).

Henry picked up his hunting knife and waited for the rising panic, a shake in his hands, something that would prevent him from performing the autopsy. Lucas patiently waited as if nothing was unusual-- which it wasn’t. The fear never came. Henry took a deep breath, and made the first incision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you the pain would be worth it in the end.
> 
> And we're finished! It's so weird to say that. This fic has been part of my life for five years, sitting at the back of my brain like the world's angriest pet. It's still not what I wanted it to be, and maybe in another five years I'll rewrite it again lol. But I like this ending. I think right now we could all do with a bit of happy. 
> 
> A huge thank you to everyone who has been reading, kudos-ing, and commenting! I had a bad spout last month and it really latched onto my writing so it means a lot knowing that people were enjoying it. The Forever fandom might just be a few people in a rusty canoe, but we're a very lovely canoe.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are welcome!


End file.
